Conversations and Provocations
by Spikey44
Summary: Criminal trials, assassinations, famines, sheep and a wedding, The Queen and the Pirate have survived them all, but can they survive each other, love sick Emperors and a Rozzarian civil war? Part three of the Conversations arc. BalthierAshe, LarsaPenelo.
1. Chapter 1

**Conversations and Provocations**

_Disclaimer: All known and recognisable characters and places owned by Square Enix and I make no profit (save my own enjoyment) from this endeavour._

_A/N: Hello! Welcome to part three of the 'Conversations' Arc I started in 'Conversations and Negotiations' and continued in 'Conversations and Interrogations.'_

_For those who have read the preceding two stories…welcome back! _

_For anyone who is dipping in for the first time here is an explanation of the plot of the first bits of this arc._

_In 'Negotiations' the story starts with the beginning of Ashe and Balthier's affair during the game then continues two years after the game when Ashe has Balthier arrested and put on trial. The story documents that trial and their continuing relationship up until the epilogue wherein Balthier is extradited to Archades as part of a plot to save Larsa from assassination._

'_Interrogations' sees Balthier in Archades fighting to uncover the plot against Larsa and basically getting on Basch's nerves. Meanwhile Ashe has to deal with an impending famine in Dalmasca and the emergence of a villainous threat very close to home; at the end of 'Interrogations' Balthier and Ashe are reunited, resolve their differences and marry. _

'_Provocations', takes place some eighteen months after that marriage; this story will feature all the characters from previous instalments with added dollops of Larsa/Penelo hijinks. _

* * *

**A tavern on the main road out of Ambervale; Rozzaria**

A citation seen upon a mark hunters' notice board in the Golden Larynx tavern on the main road out of Ambervale:

_We, the Provosts of Ambervale, loyal lieges to the noble house Margrace, make this proclamation citing the brave, courageous, honest, forthright and most kind Mishman Tabca Margrace the only true, right and proper heir to the late, lamented, honourably departed father of our great Empire, Iqballa III of Rozzaria. _

_Any man, woman or child known or suspected of supporting the despicable and most despised and deposed tyrant Al-Cid Adlebal Margrace shall be seized by the crown, put upon the rack and have their properties seized and liquidated by the Crown Margrace before their worldly bodies are to be burned upon the stake as befits all traitors to our great Empire. _

_These are the words of our much deserving of praise and all merciful Emperor Mishman I of Rozzaria as set forth by the Provosts of Ambervale. _

_All hail the Emperor, long may he reign._

A foreigner in the tavern, a tall, lean man wearing a fitted white shirt with a high, open neck collar, black trousers, tall black boots and large black gloves upon his hands stood by the board reading the proclamation, one eyebrow creeping higher up his forehead until that one brow threatened to reach orbit.

The man paused thoughtfully before the board, letting his gaze peruse the more familiar petitioners bills framing the board, absently he tapped his gloved fingers against the proclamation, before turning away altogether and pushing his way back through the crowds to his party's table in a smoky corner of the tavern.

The party this gentleman was currently travelling with was an interesting group, consisting as it did of four women and two men. Four of the party were Rozzarian and one of the women was both a foreigner and had tall graceful black tipped white ears that rose straight up from the crown of her head.

'Your brother is not over fond of you is he?'

The foreign gentleman, whose Archadian accented voice was pitched low to float, submerged, under the raucous and enthusiastic music the Golden Larynx was known for far and wide, settled himself down in his chair across from the other man, who, edged in all sides by three very similar looking women, was slumped dejectedly forward his mop of dark hair falling in front of his eyes.

'No, Mishman has never been my ally.' He said his Rozzarian accent still heavy for all that his tones were defeated and subdued.

The other man leaned back in his chair and looked about him at the lively tavern. The olive skinned, dark haired buxom women dancing a traditional Rozzarian jig caught his attention momentarily before his roving gaze drifted to the stained glass windows reflecting the crystallight in colourful drifting shards across the dusty floor of the tavern.

'This will make leaving Rozzaria a trifle more difficult.' He said finally, meeting the placid regard of the Viera who sat quietly at his right, long clawed hand curled around a mug of ale she had not touched.

'I must leave.' The sullen, dark haired man said staring gloomily into his tankard of. 'To stay is to die and de dead man can do nothing but rot in 'is grave.'

The Archadian man quirked an eyebrow inquiringly; 'Quite.' He drawled again exchanging a droll look with the Viera.

'One might also suppose that a deposed ruler cannot do altogether that much more than a rotting corpse, if he runs away.' He added provocatively.

A pair of morose dark eyes looked up at him sharply and the faintest flaring of proud nostrils made it clear the barb had struck home.

'It surprises me to 'ear a man such as you say so. For I also remember dat your own wife, eh, was once a deposed ruler wit'out a Kingdom.'

The Archadian man's lips twitched upwards acknowledging the hit, in turn, with a slight incline of his head, 'Touche.'

But the other man did not capitalise on his momentary victory and instead returned his dull, grieving gaze to rest within the depths of his ale.

The Archadian man, who had little time for depression, and even less for depressed royals, sighed irritably and returned his restless gaze to once more wander about the tavern.

For a population on the brink of civil war the patrons of this tavern were remarkably jovial. The man turned a less than amiable scowl on the miserable Rozzarian crying dry tears into his tankard. Clearly the lower classes of Rozzaria had more fortitude than the scions of house Margrace.

'We should leave before full dark. The patrols will only increase with the gathering shadows.'

The Viera spoke up, sensing the growing tensions in their little group as her partner lost his never very great patience with the devastated Rozzarian and the depressed Margrace's loyal guard grew increasingly twitchy sitting in plain sight in a public tavern but five scant miles outside of the capital city whose Provosts would burn them all at the stake should they be found.

'No rush Fran, no need to behave like a group of fleeing criminals, hmm?'

The Archadian, who most usually referred to himself as Balthier, though he was known quite widely by a vast collection of titles that suggested to a life surprisingly well lived even though the man had yet to reach thirty, spoke with nonchalant lack of concern.

Currently Balthier (alias _bastard pirate, _also known as _Master Bunansa Lord of Atholl, _and once quite some years ago, as _Ffamran Mid Bunansa, _and sometimes, though he loathed the title, he was referred to in certain rarefied circles as _Sire)_ was watching a twosome of Ambervale Provosts, in their dark blue uniforms, stroll with arrogant swagger over to the bar and noisily order beverages, their scimitars hanging from their hips like an open provocation to violence.

'Perhaps a hand of cards?'

Balthier murmured pulling a deck from the white belt pouches that hung, full and heavy, from his white double belts. He did not wait for the rest of his party to agree to play but instead efficiently shuffled the deck and began dealing the cards.

A group of unusual wayfarers playing a quiet, amiable game of cards was much less suspicious than a group of peculiar, mismatched travellers skulking in a corner of the tavern not speaking, after all.

Fran took up her cards without hesitation, one of Al-Cid's birds held hers as if they were an offensive weapon or carried some form of contagion, the other two appeared slightly more natural but their movements were stilted and tense. Al-Cid Margrace did not take up his cards at all.

Balthier reigned in his annoyance with difficulty, though did shoot a mutinous glare Fran's way. It was, in a round about way, her fault he had found himself in the company of the chronically depressed and deposed Margrace.

Fran's and his _loving_ wife's in actual fact.

Balthier studied his hand without really seeing it and stifled a sour laugh, he had dealt himself a poor hand this time, there could be no disputing that. He cut a quick sideways glance towards the two obnoxiously loud and gregarious Provosts, who were behaving like fools by the bar.

At the moment they were too busy man-handling the serving women and telling lewd and ribald jokes with bad punch lines to anyone with the misfortune to be in ear-shot and have an understanding of the Rozzarian language. Balthier was almost thankful his comprehension of Rozzarian was not great enough to keep up.

Turning back to the table, just as he heard the name _Al-Cid, _followed by a complicated and obscene hand gesture that was certainly not one of respect, escape the lips of one of the two Provosts, Balthier hissed in irritation and kicked the morose Rozzarian in the shin under the table.

Al-Cid jerked in surprise and turned his heated dark gaze, sans flamboyantly unnecessary sunglasses, to smoulder on Balthier instead of burning an impudently furious hole through the backs of the two Provosts.

'Keep you head down and lay your bet, sir.' Balthier snapped though his relaxed and casual posture and open facial expression gave away no hint of either tension or irritation.

Al-Cid did not look pleased to receive orders from Balthier but he acknowledged them, picking up the cards Balthier had dealt him earlier and keeping his dark head bowed over them.

Balthier shook his head and rolled his shoulders slightly attempting to ease the tension from his muscles, his thoughts sliding back through time as he strained his peripheral senses to keep track on the Provosts.

'_Well, if you are going to Rozzaria with Fran you can pay a visit to Al-Cid as well.' Ashe had said her voice at its most imperious, unreasonable and demanding. _

'_I am assisting Fran and the Al-Canna Viera, not paying diplomatic social calls to warring Rozzarians.' _

_He had retorted angrily, though he had not known why he was so peculiarly angry. He was not usually given to expressions of such obvious ire, but then he supposed eighteen months of marriage to a woman like Ashe, who thrived on anger, would have a detrimental affect on the equilibrium of anyone. _

_His bloody_ wife_ could drive a Kiltia saint to murderous rage given the opportunity and she seemed to revel in antagonising _him

'_Need I remind you, Balthier, that you are married to the Queen of Dalmasca? You are always on diplomatic call. You can not just swan off with your _Partner _whenever you wish!' _

_Ashe had swirled around to face him in her green and white high waisted gown and fixed him with a glower of heated ice and fury. He detested how her lip curled when she referred to Fran as his 'partner' as if this was something to be ashamed of. _

_He had narrowed his eyes at her, speaking coldly and levelly, 'Of course, Your Highness, I am nothing if not your servant in all things.' He had sneered acidly. _

'_What message do you command me to impart to your dear ally Margrace?' He had added snidely._

_He took more pleasure than he thought he should to see the slight quiver of her bottom lip. Coldly he watched her hands press against her stomach for a moment before she regained her composure, drawing herself up._

'_You may tell him that Dalmasca stands his true and most_ loving_ friend and hopes him all luck in his conflict with his brother the usurper.' _

_Her eyes had flashed with a cruel triumph as she sounded the syllables 'true loving friend' Balthier had twitched but controlled the reaction forcibly. _

_He had understood implicitly what she truly meant behind the flowery purple prose of her carefully ambiguous statement. _

_He was to find Al-Cid and keep the fallen Margrace alive should the battle with Mishman Margrace turn against Al-Cid, as it looked likely to do. _

_Balthier had merely stared at his wife for a moment, trying to swallow down the fury that had overtaken him. _

_He was not used to such violence of emotion and did not like the sensation of not trusting his next words in case he say something they would both regret. _

_In that moment, alone in her throne room, Ashe had demanded he risk his own life for another man, a man he did not even like and this simple fact had astounded him as much as it had enraged him. _

_She had also clearly expected him to do so without argument or complaint. Ashe had already made it blame she cared not for his opinion, after all. _

_Balthier had told her that it was politically unwise for Dalmasca to become embroiled in another country's civil war, but stubborn as ever and blinded by her own desire to repay a debt to Al-Cid Balthier did not even acknowledge existed, she had not listened. _

'_Your wish is my command, _my Queen.' _He had finally replied_ _bloodlessly, wishing nothing more than to no longer be forced to look on her. _

_He had bowed to her with mocking irreverence and left her chamber without another word, anger electrifying his every step. He remembered clearly that he had deliberately, spitefully, refused to acknowledge the sound of her first, choked off sob as he slammed the door petulantly behind him._

Balthier blinked and roused himself painfully from the bitter memories. Fighting with Ashe was merely a part of life these days.

In the past it had often been a precursor to passion or a playful way of relieving the stress of everyday existence. Balthier had rather thought they both enjoyed it, somewhat like a game of verbal sparring, wherein no one was truly harmed.

Once upon a time, that had been so; now fighting with Ashe left scars and bitter wounds that festered for days afterward.

The dynamic between them both, once combative and challenging but always mutually supportive, had changed over the last few months.

There was a shadow between them, Balthier knew in his soul what it was but would not acknowledge the fact wven in the privacy of his own mind. Sometimes Balthier had to force himself to remember that he did love Ashe. That their marriage was not the single greatest mistake he had ever made.

Fixing his increasingly darkening glower on Al-Cid, the man meekly keeping his head bowed over his cards, Balthier was at least relieved he had a readily available outlet for his growing discontent.

Briefly he looked over at Fran and then to the others around the table. Al-Cid Margrace, broken, defeated, and wanted dead by his own brother and three of his 'little birds' silent, sullen, dead eyed.

Balthier almost considered death on the stake preferable to his current situation as he let his mind rove over all the many obstacles between this lively, bustling tavern and the Strahl, hidden in the Rozzarian desert, which would spirit away Al-Cid Margrace, likely sparking a grave diplomatic incident, in the process.

He must truly love Ashe, Balthier reasoned ironically, to go through all this trouble for her. Though he found himself pondering an almost inadmissible question, as he considered all that could happen if he and Fran failed to escape Rozzaria with Margrace, or possibly far worse, if they did succeeded in their charge; Balthier could not help but wonder if his temperamental Queen was actually worth the risks he took for her?


	2. Chapter 2

**Nalbina**** Fortress; Royal Apartments**

Ashe knew that her husband had to keep his spare shot in here somewhere, it was just a matter of penetrating the incomprehensible, fiendishly evasive sense of logic that drove her husband to do what he did and she would then be able to intuit where he kept his gun ammunition.

Ashe cursed softly but sincerely with defeat and flopped down heavily into the over-stuffed armchair that sat all alone in the centre of the tower room that served as her husband's inner sanctum here in Nalbina.

Irritably she glared over to the gun chest by the foot of his bed, which also served as a linen chest, wherein under folds of fresh bed linens, Balthier kept a selection of his guns. The lightweight, short range Altair was now sitting on the bed spread, the slightly weightier and more effective, but quite hideously ugly, Ras Algethi alongside.

Ashe supposed it was prudent (though undoubtedly somewhat paranoid) to store shot separately from the guns themselves and so could not really blame Balthier for his eccentricities, however Ashe found herself unwilling to give her husband any credit at the present time.

She had scant few hours before the Kiltia delegation arrived in Nalbina and she had hoped to have been well into her marksmanship practice by now.

Ashe rubbed her fingers over her lips absently as she surveyed the room concentration narrowing her eyes.

This was the same room she had imprisoned Balthier in some two years prior during his trial and it did not surprise her that his rather cynical and esoteric sense of humour had led him to claim this room as his private bedroom and study out of all the rooms available in the fortress.

The room, which had been kept in the sort of order only the obsessively tidy or those given to a life of service to religion or the military could aspire too when she arrived, was now showing signs of her frustrated search for ammunition.

She had removed books from the ceiling to floor bookshelves, just in case he hid a sack of metal shot in between volumes of mechanical theory and the somewhat heretical writings of the philosopher Philomentas.

Ashe had rooted through his enormous and richly decorated cherry wood wardrobe and carefully sorted through the small display case where Balthier kept his time pieces, all to no avail.

It had been one of those little delights brought on by the advent of their marriage that had led to Ashe discovering that the dashing and debonair former sky pirate enjoyed repairing antique clocks and time pieces in his spare time a great deal more than he had ever enjoyed a night of licentious debauchery.

Smiling Ashe hauled herself up from the chair and walked over to the display case (which she had had made for him as a first wedding anniversary present for this very purpose) and looked over the gently ticking carriage clocks and fob watches arrayed within.

Carefully she handled one delicate wristwatch and then moved on to a carriage clock which was only half repaired, lacking as it was a minute hand. Each piece had a story and she seemed to recall that this one had been salvaged from a downed airship in the Ozmone Plains. Balthier had told her that the settings and mechanisms were both extremely complex and difficult to repair.

Returning the clock to its place (for everything Balthier owned had its own place and order, his fastidiousness extending to his possessions as well as his state of dress) Ashe turned to walk towards the window.

She had been in Nalbina some two days already; having abandoned her capital city for the cooler climes of Nalbina.

It was looking to be a particularly hot summer in Rabanastre (even for Dalmasca's usual standards) but thankfully the newly established meteorological society had predicted the arid conditions in advance and she had instituted water reserves so that drought would not devastate her country again.

Unfortunately no amount of prudence could save any one from the sheer discomfort of the heat; the still, dry, all-encompassing heat.

Ashe was certainly used to such, born and raised in Rabanastre and her life so far had given her a strong constitution and resilience in the face of hardship and discomfort, yet this time the circumstances were different.

Almost unconsciously Ashe had been rubbing a hand over her stomach as she looked abstractedly out of the high tower window out at the busy thoroughfare leading down into the red rock warren of passageways that made up the Mosphoran Highwaste.

Nalbina was slightly cooler than Rabanastre. Rain was more frequent as it came up from the Phon Coast and settled over the Highwaste and those brief interludes of precipitation, while bringing with them an uncomfortably close humidity, was nevertheless better than endless days of blistering heat and nights of frigid desert chill.

Ashe turned from the window and looked down at her own body. Fully clothed she was pleased to see that there was no obvious physical sign as yet for the reason for her sudden in ability to tolerate the heat.

Frowning just a little, more in concentration than any rancour, Ashe pressed her palms into her abdomen until she could feel _it_. The tiny little life growing inside of her.

She had yet to make any public announcement, nor had she informed her privy council, though she suspected they knew.

Her ladies in waiting certainly knew about the morning sickness and it would not take a huge leap in deductive reasoning to guess at the reasoning behind her sudden change in dress from fitted bodice's to looser high waisted gowns.

Ashe nibbled her lip realising that again she was getting lost in her thoughts. She had noticed her own lack of attentiveness recently, the fact that her thoughts drifted about without reason or rhythm and while she could not say that it upset her she knew that it was not prudent nor wise to become distracted.

Ashe walked over to the bed and picked up the two guns. Ras Algethi came with a simple leather shoulder strap and so she slung the heavier gun over her shoulder and carried the lighter, easier to use, Altair in her hand and made for the winding flight of stone steps back down to the main suite of the royal couples apartments; Though in truth that was something of a misnomer as it was not so much her apartment as his.

Balthier had made of Nalbina fortress something of a nest. In the eighteen months of their marriage over fifty per cent of his time (when in Dalmasca at all) was spent here in Nalbina and not in Rabanastre with her.

There was a shrewd political reason for this. It appeased her privy councillors who were both distrustful and nervous of Balthier and so to make the running of governance that much easier Balthier stayed away from Rabanastre and kept himself out of the way operating under the principle of out of sight out of mind.

So far her privy councillors seemed to believe that because Balthier was not physically present in Rabanastre and could not directly hear what they said of him that he was ignorant of both their insults and the politics of the court. This foolishness on her councillors' parts amused both Ashe and Balthier quite considerably.

Balthier's favouring of Nalbina also appeased the Nalbinese town council who had felt somewhat under appreciated by Ashe's government before her marriage and had oft times loudly and repeatedly pointed out that they had suffered far more because of the occupation than Rabanastre but received less aid.

These claims had always rankled with Ashe in part because there was some truth to them and also because there was little she could do about it.

Until, that is, Balthier had made himself king of the fortress town and the arrival of her husband had coincided with something of a revival of trade and industry in the town. Balthier, Ashe knew, had funnelled some of his own Bunansa inheritance into up-dating the aerodrome and the town was now awash with Moogle aeronautics engineers and inventors.

Ashe had somehow failed to notice it during her quest to liberate Dalmasca from occupation but Balthier had an uncanny ability to charm and befriend Moogles, she didn't know quite how he did it, but she had become used to seeing him striding about the Nalbina aerodrome with a train of happy, attentive Moogles trailing after him and hanging off his every word.

Ashe, in a moment of extreme bemusement, had once asked Fran about it to which the Viera had replied that Balthier had the mind of a Moogle. While Ashe had not completely understood what this meant the mental image of Balthier having anything in common with a small fluffy winged creature wearing a pom-pom on its head had kept her quietly entertained for hours thereafter.

Having reached the main suite of the royal apartments, the lavishly furnished set of rooms including an audience chamber, a dining room, bedroom and large, spacious bathroom, which had been created for such times as this when Ashe removed her court from Rabanastre and relocated to Nalbina, Ashe once more dawdled with uncharacteristic lethargy and indecisiveness; Her thoughts flitting about between the here and now and the recent past without linear purpose. Standing in the empty suite Ashe found herself considering politics.

A copy of Mishman's Margrace's warrant for the arrest of Al-Cid had reached her by courier yesterday and the news had inspired in her mixed reactions.

On the one hand the very fact that a warrant had been issued meant that Al-Cid yet lived and was at liberty (and more importantly that Balthier and Fran had succeeded in saving him from his brother's lethal intentions) but also invoked in Ashe a sense of guilt stricken panic that Balthier could be caught and risk death by burning.

Ashe could not even bring herself to imagine what the ramifications of his capture would be for Dalmasca. It seemed likely that there would be no way to divert a full scale war with Rozzaria if it became known that an agent of Dalmasca (and like it not as her husband was an agent of Dalmasca) was aiding Al-Cid. Even with Larsa's promised aid, Dalmasca would be ill-equipped to fight a war with Rozzaria.

Ashe sat down on the edge of the large four poster bed meant to be shared by she and her husband but which had been left empty for weeks; Ashe preferring to sleep in Balthier's bed in the tower room during his absence. Idly she twiddled with the bolts and gauges on the Altair as her mind went over her last encounter with Balthier.

Something had been wrong between them for weeks. She did not know quite what had heralded the arrival of coldness in her husband's eyes when he looked on her or what had created a resurgence in the spitefulness Balthier had in spades but usually managed to control, all she knew was that he had done everything in his power to make himself scarce and distance himself from her.

As Ashe ran her fingers over the smooth, cool barrel of the Altair, leaving finger prints on the once blemish free metal, she tried to convince herself that it did not have anything to do with the baby.

Yet try as she might to ignore it the advent of his sudden change towards her, his slow and subtle abandonment, had coincided with her announcement, made privately just for him, some seven weeks ago, that she was expecting their first child.

Frustrated Ashe threw the Altair down and strode across the room. She had not checked the wardrobe in here, perhaps Balthier kept some ammunition here in their shared apartments.

Ashe rooted through her clothes and his in the wardrobe and brushed her fingers against scented mothballs and little mounds of fluff and dust at the back of the wardrobe. She found herself thinking again about her pregnancy and the very real prospect that Balthier did not want a child.

The thought twisted like a knife in her gut because, due to her own edict, he was not here to explain himself not reassure her. Therefore she had no respite from the doubts that gnawed away at her mind.

Her hand closed on something hard, a small square of wood, some form of container at the very back of the wardrobe's top shelf. As she pulled it from the back of the wardrobe she heard the contents rattle and upon snapping open the lid felt a certain momentary triumph to discover a small collection of mixed shot inside.

Ashe loaded up the Altair; she had seen Balthier load any manner of gun in the heat of battle with nonchalant ease and expected the process to be simplicity itself. That it took her some five minutes simply to find the means to open the chamber and a further five minutes to work out that the shot she had found did not fit the gun, suggested to her that she was perhaps not meant to learn to fire a gun.

'Only you Balthier would choose such a fiddly, pointless weapon.'

She muttered to her absent husband as she threw the box of useless ammunition back into the wardrobe, only for the box to open and the contents to spill all over the floor meaning that another precious minute of her not very great spare time was spent tidying it all up.

'The armoury.' Ashe muttered suddenly inspired.

Although she had wanted to teach herself how to use a gun privately and without her guards knowing, she decided that this was simply not going to happen and proud though she may be she would not risk her baby's safety to stand on her dignity, therefore would ask for assistance if she must.

Soon enough she would be forced to put aside her swords and daggers and would need another weapon, one requiring less movement and physical strength to wield.

Ashe had decided that the gun was preferable to the bow under the circumstances, for the gun allowed one greater movement while firing (or at least Balthier had always managed to move freely while aiming, in fact he had somehow taught himself to run while shooting) therefore was a better defensive weapon should she be called upon to defend the life of her unborn child and herself late in her pregnancy.

Ashe walked confidently and proudly out of the royal apartments and along the parapet walkway towards one of the armoury stores in an adjoining tower room, stopping briefly to watch her subjects busy and contented in their everyday lives far below the walls.

Ashe had begun to suspect that Balthier preferred Nalbina to Rabanastre because the fortress was not just an occasional dungeon for the serious offenders against Dalmascan law, or a defensive fortification in times of siege, but a thriving market place, which in its restored lower levels housed many small stores and dwelling places within its walls.

Staying in Nalbina allowed Ashe to feel as though she was among her people in a way she was not within her palace of Rabanastre, she thought that Balthier, who liked to be where the action was, particularly appreciated such a feeling.

Having found the correct size of shot for the Altair Ashe was now ready to actually try and fire the damn thing, after who knows how long a time wasted in idle introspection and fruitless searching.

When Balthier returned (and he would very shortly, Ashe refused to believe that the pirate could be captured or imperilled in any way, simply because the prospect was too awful to contemplate both personally and politically) she would have him tell her where he kept his shot and then she would proudly show him that she had single-handedly mastered his preferred weapon; no doubt of which he would be somewhat irked. Balthier was a proficient fighter but she bested him in skill and efficiency in most weapons save the gun.

When they sparred together he usually had to resort to underhanded tricks to beat her, which while not very sporting at least made their mock fights more interesting as Balthier's preferred form of distraction was of a decidedly amorous leaning.

Balthier, she had found, quite literally flirted with his death when they practiced swordsmanship against each other.

Ironically enough, she very much thought her current _condition_ had been as a direct result of one of Balthier's more successful 'distractions' during sparring. Sadly, considering his actions towards her of late, she did not think he would see the funny side of it all.

Ashe shook of her frustrated melancholy and hefted the Altair striding, head held high, towards the soldiers training grounds within the small private courtyard cloistered by the fortress walls, suddenly she had a very strong compulsion to shoot something.

The straw man tied to a stick that the soldiers used for sword practice would serve the purpose as well for her, Ashe decided quietly delighted to see the training yard deserted for the moment.

She took a good few moments to line up her shot, fired one handed standing sideways on as she had seen Balthier do, and could not suppress her yelp of pain as the rebound from the shot almost snapped her wrist and she dropped the rifle to the ground.

Needless to say the shot missed the target by a wide margin and bit into a hayrick standing against the far wall of the courtyard.

Ashe frowned, clearly there was more to handling a gun than Balthier made it seem. Ashe could not help but be quietly grateful, firstly that no one had seen her first pathetic attempt to fire the gun and secondly that she had not attempted to do so with the Ras Algethi, doubtless she would have broken her arm had she tried it with that make of gun.

Ashe tried again, this time holding the gun in two hands and against her body, so her whole body could absorb the rebound, this shot also missed, but not by as much and the rebound was less severe.

Ashe nodded pleased that she was making progress all by herself without aid, her scattered thoughts aligned and organised solely within the task she had set herself.

Twenty minutes later and nearly out of shot Ashe commended herself in a quiet moment of self-congratulations as she walked around the training dummy and observed the nice mess she had made of the dummy's straw head, blown apart by the first on target shot she had managed.

Ashe was confident that she could master the rifle readily now she had a grasp of the basics, when Balthier returned she would have him instruct her on the finer points. Ashe's spirits lifted both at the prospect of his (safe) return and the thought that she would not be defenseless and dependent on others when she became heavy and ungainly with child.

It was not merely a warrior's paranoia and reluctance to appear weak that motivated Ashe in this endeavour. She had seen too much not to recognise the dark clouds on the horizon. Something bad was going to happen, Al-Cid's misfortune was merely the precursor to another period of strife for Ivalice, Ashe was sure of it.

She had tried to explain this to Balthier when they had argued over what to do about the Rozzarian conflict.

She had tried to tell him that doing nothing, allowing her friend and ally Al-Cid to fall to his brother while Dalmasca stood idly by would not save the kingdom from anything. Upheaval in Rozzaria created upheaval in all Ivalice and Dalmasca could not afford to allow the empire at her borders to collapse into civil war and anarchy lest it spill forth into Dalmasca.

Balthier had retorted, somewhat callously and off-handedly in that way he had that so infuriated her, that unless she wished to forcibly invade Rozzaria there was precious little she could do.

He had also opined that if Al-Cid could not defend his own right to rule then perhaps he was not fit to rule after all. For Ashe, who had once been cast down and stripped of her title and her rule as Al-Cid now was, this had been more than she could bare.

They had quarrelled and in her anger she had ordered him to rescue Al-Cid, partly because she knew he would hate it but also because she trusted him implicitly to succeed in this task where no one else could.

If Balthier could secretly remove Al-Cid from mainland Rozzaria and spirit him away to one of the Rozzarian southern ocean islands, or some other safe place, it was possible that no one need know Dalmasca had aided Al-Cid and a diplomatic incident could be avoided.

Ashe could then sit back and wait, confident that she had honoured the debt of friendship she bore Al-Cid and certain in the knowledge that free to mount his own army in resistance to his brother Al-Cid could reclaim his rightful place as Rozzaria's Emperor, without the need for any international incidents or a war between Dalmasca and Mishman Margrace's supporters.

Ashe still believed that her reasoning had been sound in sending Balthier, who was surely the most capable man for such a mission, to do such, yet she could not help but wonder what this would mean for her marriage.

Rozzaria's stability was of paramount importance especially as Mishman Margrace, apart from being a violent intensely ambitious man, also represented a faction of the Kiltian religion that had been espousing a belief that certain Ivalice leaders (Ashe included) had turned their back on the gods and were therefore heretics.

So far these extremists had only really gained popular support in Rozzaria, but should they find an audience in Archadia or Dalmasca as well it could lead to wide spread civil unrest.

Al-Cid had lost his throne because his people had been convinced he was a heretic and a traitor to Kiltia though the evidence was no more than hyperbole and rhetoric and Ashe, who had already lost her throne once and was known to have cast aside would-be gods once before, feared what such a faction would have to say about her.

Therefore something had to be done to quell unrest in Rozzaria before the flames of religious strife could be fanned further and all Ivalice thrown once more into disarray. Ashe was resolute on this fact. She would not have her child born into war, even if to ensure peace she had to risk her marriage.

Ashe lined up another shot on another dummy with a mind at once settled in her objectives and the rightness of the course she had taken and troubled by a nagging and fatalistic certainty that all she had already done and planned to do was already too little, too late both for her marriage and her kingdom.

She took her shot and it went wide of the target. Somehow, as the warm sun passed through dark clouds above her head throwing the outdoors courtyard into shadow, Ashe could not help but see her failure to hit her target as an ill-omen of things to come.


	3. Chapter 3

**Rozzaria; a shootout**

_A/N: thank you everyone who has reviewed and a big hello again to everyone who is back for this third instalment, your feedback, as always, is hugely appreciated. _

* * *

There are a great many times being possessed of a prodigious intellect can be seen as a blessing.

In the midst of a shoot out, hidden behind the burned out, shattered wreckage of a Rozzarian peasant's cottage being shot at by Ambervale Provosts is not one of those times, mores the pity; especially when said prodigious intellect cannot fathom a way out of said predicament that does not involve imminent acquaintance with one's own mortality.

Balthier checked the chamber of the Firestar MkII, a marvellous weapon newly on the market that Balthier had paid through the nose to possess (once he would have stolen one, or gained access to the manufacturers plans and cobbled together his own bootleg version but marriage to a Queen required one to be respectable and pay for ones goods.) It was fair to say that things were not going as well as he might have hoped.

Balthier pressed his back against the tumble down outer wall of the cottage, which was almost unrecognisable as a dwelling place. Thatched roof burned and fallen in, now only in possession of three outer walls still standing and then only just, it seemed possible that they would not be getting out of this mess without at least a few interesting bumps and bruises.

'I don't suppose you happen to be feeling particularly berserk at this moment in time, Fran?'

Balthier inquired of his partner, who was on the other side of the broken wall, crouched as he was, though forced to stoop much lower, lest her ears be shot off rising above the ledge.

Fran did not deign to dignify his question with a response and instead continued to prepare incendiary devises to throw over the wall towards their aggressors.

Balthier waited until Fran threw one of the incendiaries over the wall before he twisted around and popped his head over the broken wall, rested his matt black rifle against the top of the wall, and fired a couple of rounds at the loitering Rozzarians (the firestar MkII allowed one to fire more than one bullet at a time, which was truly a breakthrough in firearms manufacture) all in a few seconds before dropping behind the wall once again.

Nodding to Fran to hold the fort, such as it was, Balthier scuttled across the sooty, rubble strewn ground towards the slight shelter created by two inside walls and a small overhang of still existent roof, where Al-Cid and his birds cowered together.

Balthier hovered on the edge of the little hidey-hole gun held firm in his hands, 'How does she fare?'

He asked Al-Cid's broad back. The man did not bother to turn around as he continued to rip up pieces of his mustard hued vest as makeshift bandages. One of his 'birds' lay on the jagged ground of the dilapidated cottage, barely moving.

She had been stabbed in the initial altercation with two Provosts who had surprised their party when they had ventured back onto the road in search of an Inn and which had led to the party's current sorry predicament.

The little bird had been wounded with a charmed dagger, the alchemical formula that coating the blade negated the affects of standard magic and acted as an anticoagulant so that the wound continued to bleed out.

Balthier shouldered his way into the small covered space and one of the other birds crept across the shelter to where Fran continued to keep the Provosts at bay with grenades, taking his place on the front line.

'We cannot stay here. Fran is all but out of Incendiaries and five people cannot hold this pitiful ground against twice that number of Provosts, especially when they hold superior arms.' Balthier hissed intently.

He did not look down on the 'bird' who lay at his feet, wheezing painfully, bloody froth rising from her lips. The woman, who he had dubbed 'blue eyes' because he did not remember her name (had he ever known it) would not live long without aid. She had been stabbed in the lung and Balthier knew from experience that without magickal aid she would slowly drown in her own blood.

'I will not leave her.' Al-Cid said quietly, grimly and utterly seriously. He did not look up as he continued to press the mounded folds of his yellow jacket against the bubbling wound.

Abruptly, partly because Balthier had no wish to become a martyr for Rozzaria and partly because he did not wish to watch this woman die a sad, slow and ignoble death here in this ruined village, Balthier lost his temper.

'Fine then, stay and die with her.'

He snapped, turning away and hefting his rifle, scuttling back to Fran. He crouched against the wall next to Fran, whose ears were twitching as she listened to the distant conversing of their enemies.

'They grow impatient. They do not know that Al-Cid is with us and believe us to be survivors of the massacre of this village. They intend to fire bomb our position and await only the catapult to launch their missiles.'

'Hmm, not good.' Balthier thought quickly.

'The woman?' Fran asked quietly, with the barest nod towards Al-Cid.

Balthier shook his head distractedly, 'As good as dead.'

He tried to ignore the twitch from the other bird, 'Green Bird' he had dubbed her because she wore a green tunic instead of the more standard blue that her two compatriots wore.

It would be so much easier if he could dismiss them completely from his mind. Sadly, though none were exactly riveting company, each one making Fran appear loquacious in the extreme by comparison, he had spent too long around them not to have picked up on the tell-tale signs of personality and character in each, and thus could not avoid being affected by their plight.

To die without ever uttering a word, it seemed, to the always self-aggrandising Balthier, a tragedy indeed.

What sort of an epitaph would be left upon Blue Eyes grave he wondered absently. _She said nothing and she died pointlessly? _It left a sour taste in the mouth to think on it.

With a shake of the head, refusing to acknowledge the dark, intent gaze of Green Bird rooted to him with a force of expectation and an anger that was eloquence itself, Balthier thought feverishly on their escape.

'How many Provosts are out there, do you suppose?' He queried either woman in the momentary window they had been granted as the enemy gathered reinforcements.

Green Bird raised both hands and spread her fingers indicating she counted ten. Balthier glanced at Fran who nodded in confirmation.

'We need to force them to come at us now, before the catapults and the reinforcements arrive.' Balthier murmured. 'The odds of two to one are the most favourable we can hope for.'

'They are well trained; simple provocation will not move them to indiscipline.'

Fran pointed out with a firm nod of agreement from Green Bird, who for all that she did not talk, could make her views well heard.

Balthier smirked, more out of habit than genuine mirth, 'Fran please, I have never been a man for _simple_ provocation.'

Not giving Fran opportunity to comment, though likely she would not have wasted the breath in any respect, Balthier raised an inquiring eyebrow towards Green Bird.

'I don't suppose I can persuade you to forego your vow of silence and act as an interpreter?'

Green Bird gave him an articulately impassive expression, which somehow seemed to clearly impart _not on your life, pirate _without the need for so much as a single enunciated syllable.

Balthier sighed, shook his head mournfully and made to stand up. Fran's hand on his arm stopped him.

'Balthier?' She made of his name both question and warning. 'What is your purpose?'

'We cannot shoot our way out of this, Fran, therefore I am going to do the sensible thing and surrender in the face of superior arms.'

He replied blithely shaking free of her restraining grip and pulling his handkerchief from his pocket before waving the white 'flag' of truce above the top of the wall.

'Fran what is the word for surrender in Rozzarian?' He whisper hissed and flapped the piece of white cotton in the air.

Fran uttered an incomprehensible phrase that rolled about on her tongue before plopping down into the space between them like a thick trail of treacle.

Balthier blinked dumbly. Languages were not his forte, 'Pardon?'

Fran shook her head minutely and called out in a clear voice, even though she loathed raising her voice, the word for surrender in Rozzarian on his behalf.

'You know of what you do?'

She demanded in low aside as the Rozzarians called back that they accepted the surrender, or at least he assumed that was what was said from Fran's and Green Bird's reactions.

Balthier rolled his eyes irritably, 'Fran please, I have everything under control.'

Both Fran and Green Bird gave him highly incredulous looks that bordered on being openly disdainful. Green Bird mimed the motion of a person having their throat cut and Balthier decided that, vow of silence or not, the woman was too free with her opinions.

Fran, needless to say, rose up from hiding behind the wall at the same time he did and the two abandoned their most obviously visible weaponry before they strolled nonchalantly towards the row of surly and heavily armed Provosts with their hands in the air.

'Your plan, Balthier?' Fran murmured so softly that it was doubtful the Rozzarians could see her lips move.

'Diplomatic immunity.'

Balthier murmured back just as softly as they passed the still smoking rubble pile of an old outhouse and chicken coop and followed the dirt track that used to be the thoroughfare through this village. All around smoking piles of rubble and charred wood stood testament to the destruction of a once vibrant rural community.

'The Provosts do not know of our illicit royal cargo and we must keep it that way. So I intend to muddy the waters by offering up my own august self instead and hoping the noble Mishman Margrace does not wish to provoke war with Ashe by killing me.'

Balthier had no idea what this village had once been called or what had become of the villagers but he doubted that they had deserved the destruction wrought upon them.

One of the Provosts who had some rather spiffy gold thread decoration on his military cut jacket lapels barked out an order that even Balthier could understand as he and Fran approached.

_Halt or we open fire. _Was a universal command that could be understood more through the positioning of gun barrels and the belligerent stances of ten angry, violent men, than mere linguistics alone.

Balthier and Fran acquiesced without argument. The leader of the Provosts, with the sparkly tassels that Balthier could not decide whether he admired or felt contemptuous of, strode forward saying something in a loose tongued snarl.

Balthier speared a sideways glance Fran's way; she shrugged minutely and replied to the man, with a certain tart succinctness, in Rozzarian.

Fran had offered to teach Balthier Rozzarian as they had spent rather a lot of time looting and thieving and bilking Rozzarian merchants and the like in the good old days of their piracy.

However Balthier had proved so woefully inept at any and all foreign languages that he had even exhausted Fran's patience and the lessons had ceased almost as soon as they began.

Interestingly his comprehension of the Bhujerban language had come on leaps and bounds since the advent of his marriage to part Bhujerban Ashelia.

Ashe had an interesting, but delightful, tendency to shout out somewhat saucy commentary in Bhujerban while they engaged in……_marital proclivities_…….together.

Sadly none of what he had learned could be repeated in public and Ashe was usually unwilling to elaborate on what she had said come the morn. Thus Balthier remained a man of only one spoken language.

Shaking himself from his wandering thoughts Balthier waited for Fran to finish negotiating with the Provost.

He could not help feeling conspicuously foolish while Fran and the other man engaged in a terse conversation seemingly about him and he could only stand there looking less than his usual debonair self (three days traversing the unbeaten path to avoid Provost patrols had amounted only to bleeding blisters on his feet and mud splattered clothing.)

Suddenly the Provost turned to him sharply, dark eyes narrowed and thick lipped mouth pursed under a beautifully maintained and coiffed full black beard.

'You Bunansa?' He demanded mangling the name with his slack tongued, loose jawed Rozzarian accent until Balthier wasn't sure if he had said _Bunansa _or _Banana_.

As it seemed unlikely the Rozzarian had mistaken him for a semi-tropical yellow fruit that could be harvested from the southern Naldoan island colonies, Balthier decided that the man knew of him, as he had hoped.

'Bunansa, yes that is my name.' Balthier said carefully.

It was ironic and not a little galling to Balthier that for six years he had run from his name and his heritage and now, here he was, depending on being recognised and known by both his title and his wife's status.

Of course fear of being seen as a hypocrite paled in comparison to the very real fear that unless he could convince these men that he was the only Hume in the vicinity that even approached that of genuine royalty, he, Fran and the maudling Al-Cid, would soon be no more than charred and blackened kindling.

Two other Rozzarian Provosts approached and a swift conversation took place, Balthier clearly heard his own name and that of Ashe's mentioned. He and Fran waited patiently as more of the little gaggle of Provosts joined the discussion pointing and whispering at the two of them.

Balthier kept his smirk on the inside and fervently hoped that Green Bird had the sense to get her suicidal former Emperor-to-be master back into the safety of the nearby woods and away from here while he and Fran acted as distraction.

'Business 'ere?' The lead Provost demanded turning back to him and silencing his argumentative cohorts with a sharp retort and curled lip.

Balthier nodded to Fran to act as interpreter and began speaking slowly and carefully.

'Myself and my business partner were passing through from the Al-Canna settlement of the Viera when we came across the smoke rising from these ruins and came to investigate and lend aid to any survivors. We then found ourselves coming under fire from you and your men while investigating a,' Balthier thought fast, 'a cry for help from within the ruins of that cottage.'

Fran swiftly translated and Balthier pointed helpfully to the cottage. If Al-Cid hadn't beaten a hasty retreat by now then they were all dead and Balthier swore that he would find the means to revisit his wife as a disembodied spirit simply so he could point out to her the folly of her commands.

How, Balthier wondered peevishly while the Provost Captain considered him through narrowed eyes, was any man supposed to slip through all this chaos undetected and with the most hated man in Rozzaria in tow?

Rozzaria had turned all its considerable military might in on itself, as the macabre evidence of this village proved and the vast territory had become one enormous battle ground. Neighbour turned on neighbour, father on son, daughter against mother and so on and so forth.

The mind boggled how Ashe believed even for a moment _he_ could spirit Al-Cid through all this to safety; _safety_ being a commodity in short supply anywhere within Rozzaria.

Balthier was good, he was the best, but even he had his limits and to confound matters further Al-Cid Margrace was not a patch on Ashe. At least his wife knew how to more than hold her own in battle.

As Balthier suspected the Provost Captain finally commanded his men to search the wreckage of the cottage and Balthier forced himself to breathe normally as he waited, acutely aware of the Captain's large rifle pointed towards his chest, as the Rozzarians moved carefully towards the cottage.

A shout rang out and one of the men appeared from the entrance to Al-Cid's hidey-hole, waving his arms excitedly.

After a moment two more Provosts started to drag something out of Margrace's hiding space and Balthier stifled the impulse to sigh in relief when he discovered it was Blue Eyes the Bird, not her erstwhile master.

That relief turned to shock and a whisper of self-reproach when he realised, as they carried the body forward, that that body was still nominally alive.

The look on the Provost Captain's face, the sudden sharpening of awareness in his gimlet eyes, told Balthier that the man knew what he had found.

The small gaggle of excited Rozzarian's dumped the bleeding, grey-faced Bird onto the ground by their feet and Balthier repressed a wince as she landed heavily. Instead Balthier pasted a look of affable bafflement upon his face.

Fran remained smoothly impassive and unmoved by the spectacle but Balthier could see the tightening of the skin around her eyes and knew she was unhappy; which made two of them.

He was about to do something unbelievably callous and he did not like it. There was nothing he could do for Blue Eyes, yet there was a difference between having no means to save a life and throwing that life to the Rozzarian wolves.

'How you come by this woman?' The Rozzarian Provost demanded in bad Ivalic.

Balthier shrugged, 'I'm afraid I did not.'

He replied contriving to look upon Blue Eyes with an expression of unfamiliar concern. The sort of look one would give a stranger who was bleeding profusely at one's feet while surrounded by armed men. You pity them but nothing in all Ivalice could convince you to risk your life to help them.

'Fran and I heard her calls for help but were accosted by your men before we could reach her. I have never seen this woman in my life.'

He stated flatly and then rearranged his facial expression into a mask of sudden recognition mixed with confusion.

'The woman's dress _is_ familiar, however. I think I have seen such women, dressed as she, accompany Rozzarian delegations to visit with my wife in times passed.'

It would not do to leave an opening for a clever man (and he had no way of knowing if this Provost was a clever man or not, but dared not risk it) to exploit to find him out in a lie or omission.

Therefore Balthier acknowledge that he recognised the woman in an offhand manner while disassociating himself and Fran from her in the present, simultaneously reminding the man that he would be sparking a diplomatic incident if he made any rash actions against the Queen of Dalmasca's husband.

Balthier might not like hiding behind Ashe's skirts (metaphorically speaking) but he was prepared to do it when his other options involved immolation or death by firing squad.

The Provost frowned narrowly at Balthier, 'No one else? You see no one else wit' 'er?' He demanded in broken Ivalic tongue.

Balthier lied with facial muscles again and contorted his face into a confused frown that was at once perplexed and thoughtful, he glanced at Fran questioningly.

'I don't recall seeing anyone on the road. We have been travelling the back roads to avoid the troop movements.'

Balthier smiled with disingenuous self-reproach, 'I have tarried over long in the Al-Canna settlement and did not want to travel too freely lest my presence be misinterpreted as some form of subversive act on behest my wife.'

Again he raised the issue in order to cast doubt on its validity. He had learned early on that when in the commission of a crime and caught out admitting the possibility of an ill-deed in such a way as to make it sound implausible was a very good way of allying suspicion.

The Provost looked from Balthier to Fran and back at him, 'Your wife not know you 'ere?'

Balthier seized the moment as he saw the wrong assumptions being drawn. He had long become inured to the innuendo and misconceptions of others' regards his relationship with Fran, but that did not stop him from using such to his advantage when circumstance demanded it.

Balthier cast a lightening fast glance Fran's way and awkwardly adjusted his stance to appear momentarily unnerved. Fran closed her eyes briefly in long-suffering resignation as she realised what he was about to do.

'….I don't know what you mean sir.' Balthier said haughtily, raising his chin defiantly and almost willing the man to continue along his mental path to all the wrong conclusions.

_Yes my good fellow, I am cheating on my wife with my Viera partner and decided to conduct my illicit liaison in the middle of a war zone, and yes, it is entirely coincidental that you should find myself and my partner in the vicinity of one of Al-Cid's loyal bodyguards. It would also be helpful if you could forget what firm friends my wife is with the vilified Al-Cid Margrace. _

If it wasn't for the fact that Balthier was a wonderfully skilled manipulator he would have long become disgusted with how gullible and lascivious minded the average citizen of Ivalice could be.

Seconds ticked by and all the while Blue Eyes lay dying between them, the Rozzarian gun barrels levelled on her and not Balthier and Fran.

'We need check your story.'

The Provost muttered. Although the way his eyes remained fixed, unblinkingly, upon the cut away section of Fran's battle attire and particularly her taut flat stomach and visible navel, suggested more than words that the man had jumped upon the ridiculous and implausible notion that he and Fran were secret lovers who enjoyed engaging in their romance in the midst of foreign civil wars, with some enthusiasm.

'The Al-Canna Viera will confirm our presence.' Balthier said agreeably. He was glad that the hospitable and progressive Viera of Rozzaria were as different from their Golmore counter-parts as night from day.

The man seemed to perk up visibly at the prospect of making the acquaintance of a Viera of his own, but remained wary. He kicked Blue Eyes with the toe of his steel capped boot contemptuously.

'You know not she?' He asked again in broken Ivalic tongue, accent destroying the clarity of the words.

'As I say, her dress is familiar, but no, I have no knowledge of this woman.'

Balthier said quietly, watching the guns trained on Blue Eyes; aware, like a cold, icy whisper of guilt, of the woman's eyes on him.

Silent as the grave Blue Eyes watched him, painfully aware, still, as her life ticked away and leaked across the scorched dirt beneath their feet.

Balthier wished she would not look at him. He wished fervently that she would hurry up and die, for surely death could only be a relief for her now? Yet she clung to life, wet rasping breaths the most noise he had ever heard her make, eyes piercing him like an accusation.

The Leading Man was not supposed to let the damsel die.

'She 'is a traitor. She is wit' de villain Al-Cid. You know not'ing o' dis?' The Provost demanded keenly.

Balthier shook his head and met the man's hard eyes with his own; his gaze colder and harder than the man's, frozen by guilt.

'Had I known of the woman's allegiance I should not have attempted to respond to her cries for help. I have no will to bring myself or my wife's kingdom into disrepute with your Emperor.'

The Provost smiled, 'Dat is good, eh, no worries then.' He nodded and clicked the safety off his rifle.

'My men an' I escort you to Ambervale sir, an' see you on yer way.' He said companionably, 'But first we deal wit' 'er.'

He pointed the rifle at Blue Eyes as around him the rest of his men formed a circle and pointed their rifles also.

The leading man was not supposed to let the damsel die.

'Wait!'

Balthier only realised he had spoken when his own hand, seemingly moving of its own volition, pulled the Provost Captain's gun barrel down and away from Blue Eyes. The man turned sharp, darkly triumphant, eyes on him.

'If this woman is one of Al-Cid's supporters should you not interrogate her, perhaps her master is near by?'

Even as Balthier spoke he knew it was hopeless. The gambit had failed because of his foolish habit of being chivalric at the most inopportune moments.

The Provost Captain was grinning with a predatory light in his eyes, 'Or perhaps we be betta int'rogating you, eh? We no fools, we know de Dalmascan Queen want t'save Al-Cid who be 'er friend.'

Ten gun barrels swung around to fix on Balthier and Fran. The two long term partners shared a look. Both knew that if Balthier had not acted to prevent cold blooded murder, Fran likely would have done. There were just some things a leading man and his long time partner could not abide.

'Ah, well, it was a good plan while it lasted Fran.' He murmured in aside.

As last words went he might have wished to have devised better but at least they were appropriate to both the moment and his life in general.

Fran merely sighed, shook her hair back behind her back and stared down their advancing aggressors with the calm and almost haughty disregard of one who has seen the completion of almost ninety decades already.

With the suddenness of divine intervention Blue Eyes rose up from the ground, small dagger in hand, to plunge the blade into the groin of one of the Provosts. The man fell screaming to the ground, his compeers whipping around to face the new threat.

Pandemonium swiftly ensued.

Fran launched herself into action with a ferocious, double spiked heel, kick that took out two of the advancing Provosts.

Balthier tackled one Provost and made a grab for the gun pointed towards his partner, managing to adjust the position of the gun so that barrel was pointed into the Provosts stomach.

He squeezed down on the trigger and spun on his heel, gun raised so that he could bring the butt of the rifle down with elemental force onto the head of another dark blue clad Provost, before the first had even finished his slow collapse to the ground.

Silent as the lengthening evening shadows, Al-Cid's two other Birds erupted from the gathering gloom seeming out of thin air and launched themselves, soundless and efficient, into the battle.

In the midst of the melee Al-Cid slipped through the furore with near impossible grace, scooped up the heroic Blue Eyes and ran with her in his arms away from the fight.

Some ninety seconds later the battle was over. Balthier used his handkerchief of truce to wipe at his brow and looked speculatively at the uniforms of four of the ten Provosts that were still in relatively good repair.

Thoughtfully he glanced over at Green Bird who was cleaning her stiletto blade of arterial blood nonchalantly upon a tuft of green grass not burned black from the fire storm that had destroyed the village.

'Can Provosts be female?' He inquired and was rewarded by a couerl sharp grin from the silent woman and an equally sharp and emphatic head nod in the affirmative.

Balthier felt himself smiling, 'Well then, a disguise should help our speedy passage to the Mikanel desert immeasurably, hmm?'

In answer Green Bird and her other healthy compatriot, dubbed Tiny Bird due to her short stature, had already begun tearing the uniforms from the four Provosts with the least amount of tears to their clothing or bloody gaping wounds.

Balthier walked over to the corpse of the Provost Captain and glanced over to Al-Cid who was busy administering an antidote to Blue Eyes, having rooted through the Provosts pockets for a means to save his little bird's life.

'Al-Cid, are you partial to gold tassels?' He called smoothly.

Al-Cid turned around irritably, straggles of over-long dark hair hanging in front of his un-shaded eyes. He looked from Balthier to the dead Provost Captain and then to his two other Birds busy dressing in the dead men's uniforms.

Al-Cid smiled. 'I t'ink, my friend, I could force myself, under de circumstances, to wear tassels.'

'Marvellous.'

Balthier clapped his hands and went over to find his own uniform. He smirked at Fran who had already divested a waiting corpse of his clothing and dignity in death and handed Balthier the dark blue two-piece uniform.

Fran of course would wear no disguise, partly because there was very little that could disguise a Viera's ears, but more pertinently because Fran would sooner die than cavort about in a dead man's clothes.

'Well, that went rather well, wouldn't you say, Fran?' Balthier quirked an eyebrow amusedly at his partner.

Fran refrained from answering and instead walked off to check the roads for any sign of the reinforcements and catapults the Provosts had been waiting for, leaving him to dress while chuckling to himself.

Balthier, once dressed in the dead man's uniform, looked out over the devastated smoking ruin of the village, the dwelling place a victim of two men's squabble over a throne, and felt his good humour fading.

Almost absently he wondered what Ashe was doing now, as a large harvest moon hung heavily in the crisp night sky, and if she truly appreciated how much trouble he was going too, simply to please her?

* * *

_A/N: next up, enter Penelo – trollop of Dalmasca! _


	4. Chapter 4

**The Archades Interlude: Part One**

Penelo twisted her hands together, threading her fingers intertwined and then tearing them about, rolling her wrists and wringing her hands.

She would not cry. She didn't even really want to. Penelo was not really the sort to cry. It always felt like she might cry too hard if she let herself get started and then she might become a burden on other people. It wasn't fair to make other people miserable.

Not that there was anyone she could talk to here.

Penelo picked up a fringed cushion from the 'daybed' in her suite. Penelo had never seen a daybed, which looked to her like a really big upholstered sofa with only one raised end so that people could 'recline' on it.

Apparently ladies in Archades did a lot of reclining. Penelo had attempted to practice reclining elegantly but had ended up dozing and rolled over and fallen off the edge striking her head on the rich embroidered Dalmascan style rug. After that Penelo decided that reclining wasn't really for her.

It had made Larsa laugh when she had told him about her reclining problems and that was good and exactly what she had wanted when she told him, because Larsa never laughed. He smiled plenty but he didn't really laugh.

Penelo thought this was an Archadian thing. She now knew plenty of Archadians and none of them ever really just up and laughed. Almost as though they thought it wasn't proper.

Penelo got up from her tense perch on the edge of the daybed, still clutching her cushion tightly to her chest.

She wished Vaan would hurry up and get here. Vaan would put her at ease and would probably make her laugh about all the whispering and the comments behind hands the other ladies made as Penelo passed.

How long did it take him to fly to Archades from Rabanastre anyway? Maybe there'd been some emergency and Ashe needed him to delay his holiday?

Penelo walked out towards the balcony of her suite, mind whirring with questions. Her mind bounced from thought to thought.

She remembered when she had asked the Bhujerban envoy if he had a balcony and a chandelier and imported furnishings in his apartments to make him feel at home.

He had given her a weird look and told her no, he didn't have any of the things Penelo had in her suite, none of the other envoys did. Then he had turned his back on Penelo and left her all alone and even more confused.

Larsa had told her it was custom to make an envoy feel comfortable by making up their rooms like home. Of course Penelo would have been more used to a bunk bed in a sundry shop backroom sharing space with bags of spices than this luxury suite but she was happy to adapt.

Touching the fine gauzy hanging drapery curtains at her balcony doors Penelo played with the gold tasselled fringe of her cushion anxiously.

It was really kind of pathetic. She _knew_ they were insulting her. She knew that every woman in Archades whispered about her and all the men gave her looks that any girl who has lived on the breadline knows to recognise and fear.

Yet…yet….she wished she knew what _trollop _meant. She knew it was bad. She knew it was an insult, that was obvious, but somehow it made her feel so much worse not knowing exactly what they meant.

_Trollop. There goes Larsa's trollop. There goes the whore of Dalmasca._

She knew what _whore _meant and it made her so angry to hear them say that. Penelo had been orphaned at fourteen, if she hadn't had Migelo, and even Vaan,…….who told her point blank that his friend wasn't selling herself to any imperial while he had anything to say about it,……well, Penelo knew a lot of girls back home who had been forced to do what a girl has to do when the only other option is starve.

She was no whore and she didn't think she was a _trollop_ either. She wondered if Larsa knew what his people were saying? She didn't think so. He wouldn't stand for it.

There wasn't a chance she was going to tell him, though. Penelo was not a tattle-tale.

Still, she wished she had someone to ask, to talk too. She wished that she had a friend here.

Penelo was not used to having no one to spend time with. She was a friendly person, raised to be generous and welcoming to anyone she met. Give everyone the benefit of the doubt, her mother had always told her.

_There but for the grace of Faram go you, my star, remember that. _

That was what Mama had always said. Penelo could not help but wonder whether the stylish, well spoken, clever women of the Archades court who were always so _nice_ when Larsa was around, would be able to turn the other cheek like she did if they'd lived through an occupation.

Penelo thought that Lady Irisa, Felicia, and Cordelia, three of the nastiest…..well, Penelo didn't like to say mean things about people……(spiteful cows!) that she had ever had the bad luck to meet would be eaten by desert wolves within thirty seconds of being dumped into Penelo's life.

Penelo sighed miserably (she could be as miserable as she liked on her own because it didn't hurt anyone else) and stepped out onto her balcony. Archades in spring was still cool, almost cold out. The early evening air so far up here in the Imperial Palace made the breeze even sharper.

For a little while Penelo just watched the sky cabs far below zip about from Nilbasse to Tsenoble and from the Grand Arcade to the Imperial Circle, where the Palace and the Senate and the Judiciary building were located. Night or day Archades never slept.

Penelo remembered her first ever visit to Archades five years ago (was it really that long ago?) She had been so impressed by the buildings that just went straight up into the sky like big, pointy red needles stabbing at the clear blue. She remembered how pretty the walkways and promenades were, all red brick and draped in greenery.

She also remembered how strange the people were. It was like a whole city full of _Balthier's_, she remembered thinking that so clearly. So many keen eyed, well-spoken, well dressed men and women who knew so much and yet didn't seem very happy for all that they were clever and educated and rich.

Penelo still thought this about Archades. That it was a city full of people who had never been raised to understand being happy and friendly and giving without expecting anything back.

But at least now Archades was changing and changing for the better and it was all because of Larsa.

Only yesterday Penelo had wandered down to Old Archades where the slum clearance was well underway and most of the _vulgars' _(Penelo had never liked that word; Penelo had known it for an insult and knew also, that, but for the grace of Faram, she could have been born an Archadian vulgar too) were now living in brand new bungalows and farm houses along the banks of the Archades river away from the stench of open sewers, and travelled into Nilbasse freely every day.

When Penelo had told Larsa she had gone down to Old Archades (though people were now calling it _New Town _and even some of the Ardents wanted to live there because of the new employment opportunities) he had pressed her for every detail and been so pleased when she told him that the people seemed so much happier than before.

Old Archades had been Larsa's big quest since becoming Emperor. He wanted to totally rebuild the slums and connect the alleys to the sky cab network so that the city was _fully integrated _as he put it.

_It is the only way Penelo. Archades has been crippled by a caste system too long. I am Emperor to all not just those wealthy enough to live in the Rises. _

Penelo remembered how he had paced back and forth in his open air office in the Imperial palace, the one with the big fish pond and the covered portico walk-ways, gesturing with his hands as he spoke.

Larsa had quiet and still when she first met him (so different from Vaan!) but now he was seventeen and taller than she was by a good head or so, and he moved about much more.

Larsa had smiled when she told him he was much more fidgety now than when they had met (she had also suggested this was her and Vaan's bad influence on him) and he had teased her back that he had grown so much in the last two years he had to walk about so as to get used to the higher altitudes.

_Archades must have an Emperor who can stand tall on his own two feet and does not trip over every second step. If I don't practice all the other emperors shall laugh at me._

Penelo smiled at the memory. Larsa had a sense of humour and not cynical sense of humour or a spiteful one. Larsa liked to be happy and he liked other people to be happy too. Larsa even managed to chuckle at Vaan's jokes (which were always awful) though sometimes this was more out of politeness than anything else.

Larsa, Penelo grinned to herself, was ever so polite. But not just polite in what he said. Because anyone could say please and thank you and that didn't really a make a person polite. The ladies Irisa, Cordelia and Felicia were always very polite and proper to a person's face, after all.

Larsa however actually meant it. If he asked _how are you? _he meant it, he wasn't just asking because he was supposed too. He was even polite enough to take tea with her when she first arrived in Archades, even though he was tremendously busy.

Penelo remembered that day perfectly. She had just arrived in Arcahdes to take up her six month placement as official Dalmascan Envoy and Larsa had come to her suite as she was unpacking her belongings (which had seemed even more paltry and inexpensive surrounded by all the wealthy and '_opulence' _of her new rooms).

Larsa had made tea, using the silver tea service Penelo had not even noticed sitting on the coffee table (_her_ coffee table –Penelo had never had a coffee table –she had made a note to start drinking coffee so as to use it properly).

Penelo remembered that she had been panicking at the time over whether she should make the tea as he was the Emperor and she was just an envoy, but Larsa had insisted.

'You are my guest.'

He had smiled and Penelo had thought to herself that he really did have the loveliest blue eyes she'd ever seen; framed in long dark lashes his eyes were such a dark blue and endlessly deep but still kind of sparkly.

'_Yeah, but I bet you don't make tea for all the other envoys.' _

She had half teased him, wondering if that was an appropriate response. She was supposed to be acting as the official Dalmascan representative here in Archadia and she didn't want to do or say anything that would upset Ashe.

Larsa had looked up from his careful measuring of a spoonful of sugar into each fancy decorated cup and she had seen that glimmer of humour in his big, blue eyes.

' _How do you know? I happen to be a very hospitable Emperor.' _

Penelo had grinned and dropped down onto the sofa and taken up her cup, only to pause guiltily because she didn't know if she should wait for him to be seated and pick up his cup before she did.

Vaguely Penelo had wondered if there was an instruction manual for _envoy-ing_ and whether Basch was still around so she could pick up pointers from him.

'_Penelo are you well?' _

Larsa had settled down opposite her and was looking at her with those big kind eyes and she had felt her cheeks flushing. It was amazing really, she could write anything and everything she was thinking or feeling down in a letter to him but talking to him was really difficult.

'_Where's Basch?' _She had stuttered.

'_Landis. The Act of Autonomy has finally been ratified and Basch has been given sabbatical to see how the newly devolved government of Landis is getting on.' _

Larsa had smiled slightly, smiled with happiness for his guardian Judge who was finally able to go home (his real home, sometimes it was hard for Penelo to remember that Basch was not Dalmascan…or at least not born Dalmascan.)

'_Penelo, I have a little time to spare, would you do me the honour of accompanying myself and some of the court on a small hunting trip to the Uplands?' _

Larsa had asked her and in no time at all whisked her off to do something new and interesting that was so much more fun than unpacking.

That was so like Larsa though. He had time for anyone and was generous with people even when he didn't have time to spare. Penelo often thought that Larsa couldn't really be Archadian because he wasn't like the other Archadians she had met.

_Vayne: _who had been a monster even before he grew metal wings and started shooting lasers from his hands; Penelo could not imagine how he and Larsa could have been brothers. They didn't even look alike in her opinion.

_Judge Magister Zaagabaath: _her favourite Magister (excluding Basch who wasn't really a Magister as far as Penelo was concerned) because he hadn't tried to kill the six of them when they were all fighting Vayne. He wasn't bad really, but he was so stiff and formal.

_Jules the Streetear, _that man would sell his own grandmother for a handful of Gil, no probably, he would just rob his grandmother for the Gil. He was Archadian and he certainly wasn't like Larsa.

_Balthier,_ who was as posh as Larsa but they weren't the same. Truthfully Balthier was not as nice. Sometimes Balthier was more like Jules than Larsa, and Penelo felt she could say this (if only to herself….never to Balthier's face because he'd probably have a heart attack if she did) because she liked Balthier anyway, even if sometimes she thought he could be mean.

Larsa did not have a mean bone in his body. Penelo, coming in from the balcony when she realised how cold she had become standing out there staring into her memories, found herself considering Larsa's mean bone lacking body with a certain guilty appreciation.

That was the only problem with Larsa. He was wonderful but he was totally unattainable.

Plus she was almost five years older than him and while as it was okay for a man to court a girl years younger than he was it was different when the woman was older.

'It's not like I've ever been older though.' Penelo muttered for the benefit of the pillow scrunched against her chest who was, because Vaan still wasn't here for his visit, her only confidante.

'Even when we first met he was wiser and more knowledgeable than either me or Vaan. He was never a twelve year old boy. He just wasn't. Not in his mind.'

After all, Penelo knew little boys. She had practically raised Kytes and the other orphan children of Dalmasca and Larsa was not like any of them.

Larsa at twelve had more maturity than Ashe had had during their trek to Mount Bur-Omisace (and yes, Penelo felt a bit bad about admitting that, but it was true. Ashe lost her temper a lot and became stroppy and Larsa never did, even when Ashe was stroppy _at him_.)

Larsa at seventeen was grown up enough for Penelo at twenty-one; completely and undeniably.

Penelo could feel her cheeks flaming even thinking this and felt both very foolish and guilty. Maybe this was what those other Ladies of the Imperial court meant when they called her a 'trollop'.

Was she being a trollop now? Was this trollop-y behaviour? Would Vaan know if she asked him……but that was a ridiculous question; of course Vaan wouldn't know. If Penelo didn't know then her best and longest serving friend wouldn't either.

Penelo finally discarded her cushion and flopped down on the sofa by the coffee table and contemplated making herself coffee. She and Larsa had tea together once a week and he had been introducing her to the wonders of the different varieties of tea and coffee with crumpets and scones.

Penelo also learned that it was alright to use a coffee table for something other than putting coffee cups on it. Basically it was just a table, but lower down.

Penelo was still contemplating her coffee table (not really _hers_, exactly, but hers for the time she was here) when the door to her suite banged open and Vaan bounded in with the ruddy cheeked enthusiasm that remained undiminished even now he was twenty-two.

'Hey, Pen –_Elo!' _

Vaan always did that, stressed the last two syllables of her name like that. She had always found it annoying, but never said anything. It wasn't like Vaan meant it to be annoying so she didn't bother getting upset about it.

Instead she bounded over to him as Vaan strode into the room, looking about him with that round, moon shaped face of his filled with a completely guileless appreciation.

'Wow, Penelo. You get to live here?'

Penelo clasped her hands together nervously before her and nodded, 'Larsa is very generous.'

She said awkwardly then cuffed him across the back of the head and clucked her tongue in her best motherly impression of annoyance to cover up for her embarrassment.

'Vaan! You're late. Is everything alright with Ashe, did you have trouble flying?'

Vaan, rubbing his head and giving Penelo an aggrieved look shook his head, 'Penelo I don't have trouble flying. I am _the_ best pilot in Dalmasca.'

Penelo ignored this remark and led him further into the suite before she noticed his lack of luggage and frowned. 'Vaan where's your stuff?'

Vaan grinned lazily at her and went to flop down on the recliner, managing to recline without falling off the stupid thing and making a fool of himself like she had. This seemed somewhat unfair to Penelo.

'These guys wearing black and red uniforms came over when I finished docking the Veccara and took my stuff. They said they'd get me _'situated' _so I could come see you straight away.'

Penelo interpreted this to mean that the Palace attendants had met Vaan and taken his stuff to a guest room after he docked the Veccara (the Veccara was Vaan's new airship as the Beirouge was mostly used for official state business and Vaan claimed he needed his own airship to do...well, flying about in.)

'Situated. I've never been situated before.' Vaan was grinning even wider as he rolled the word on his tongue.

Penelo rolled her eyes and moved over to slap his feet off the recliner. 'Your boots are all muddy, Vaan.' She snapped.

Vaan ignored her as his attention was already taken up by the bowl of Star fruit sitting neatly on the coffee table.

'Hey, I didn't know those grew here. I thought they were desert fruits.'

Immediately he leapt up, snagged one of the fruits and plopped back down, propping his feet up on the coffee table until Penelo knocked them to the carpet again.

'They do grow in the desert. Archades has them shipped in. Archades has lots of things bought in from all over the place Vaan.'

'Thaf'sss Goofdd.'

Vaan said slobbering his way around a mouthful of the sticky, moisture rich fruit. Penelo shook her head and gave up before even opening her mouth to tell him to eat properly. If he hadn't learnt that yet, then he never would.

Penelo watched her friend eat for a few moments and then decided to ask the question that was playing on her mind.

'Vaan, do you know what a _trollop _is?'

'What?' Vaan coughed around a mouthful of Star fruit that went down the wrong way as he almost choked in surprise. Penelo narrowed her eyes a little.

He did! He knew what it meant!

Vaan was giving her a keen look of his own. 'Where did you hear that?'

Penelo was not accustomed to lying and certainly never had to with Vaan before so she told him. She told him about the funny looks and the whispers and the comments that people made that seemed nice enough at the time until Penelo had a chance to think back on them and then she realised they weren't nice at all.

Once she was done, she watched Vaan as he thoughtfully juggled two Star fruits in his hands.

' They're jealous because Larsa loves you and not any of them.'

'Vaan!' Penelo's cheeks were on fire, heat rushed from the roots of her hair down her neck to her shoulders and all the way down to her toes. 'Larsa is _not_ in love with me.'

It wasn't often that Vaan had the opportunity to give anyone a superior look, so he enjoyed himself right that moment as he battered Penelo into red cheeked submission with his dry incredulity (seriously hoping he looked just a bit like Balthier as he did so).

'Penelo he's been in love with you since he met you in Bhujerba. _Everybody_ knows that.'

Penelo felt sure that a hungry family would be able to fry eggs on her cheeks because they were so hot. Heat, embarrassment and a crazy, wild excitement coursed through her as her mouth went dry and anything she might have said in denial flew out of her head.

Vaan, who had added another Star fruit from the bowl to his juggling act, was too busy keeping the three fruits in the air to notice. He started talking in that unconcerned way he had that completely missed (or possibly simply ignored) any awkwardness his audience might have about the subject.

'Anyway, you have to marry Larsa, Penelo, and become Empress.'

'_What?_' Penelo squeaked, feeling the need to pour herself a glass of water from the pitcher next to the fruit bowl on the coffee table.

Vaan actually bothered to look at her, which meant he took his concentration off the fruit, which summarily fell all over the floor and the coffee table. Her friend picked them back up somewhat embarrassed.

'Sorry.' He muttered sheepishly.

Penelo was more interested in what he had said then in bruised fruit. She was used to Vaan and his tendency to break, damage or maim things without meaning too. It was just _him_ and she had long since lost interest in getting annoyed by that.

'What do you mean I have to marry Larsa? Vaan he's never said anything to me. We're just friends.'

Again Vaan gave her that _don't play dumb Penelo, because I am so much better at that then you, _look, 'Yeah, because he's _Larsa_, Penelo. Saying anything might upset you or something and he would sooner chop off his...er, well, anyway he wouldn't say anything.'

When Penelo could not think of anything to say to that and was almost drowning in the thunderous heat of her blood in her veins and the pounding of her heart, Vaan filled the silence.

'It's all because of the Star fruit, you know.' He said knowledgeable, like a person imparting great wisdom, which on Vaan just sounded wrong.

'Huh?' Was all Penelo could muster in reply as she nervously gulped from her glass of water.

Vaan nodded sagely and held up one of the fruits he had been playing with. 'Star fruits. It was because of a Star fruit that Dalmasca was liberated. None of this would have ever happened if I hadn't stolen a Star fruit from that vendor in the Bazaar back during the occupation.'

Penelo almost spat out her swallow of water and had to wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, spluttering, before she could speak.

'Vaan, what are you talking about? How did you stealing a piece of fruit liberate Dalmasca?'

Vaan grinned, clearly pleased with her question. 'I've thought it all out Penelo.' He told her proudly.

Leaning back against the recliner, he started throwing the one Star fruit up in the air and catching it.

'See, it all started something, me stealing that fruit. Because if I hadn't stolen that fruit I never would have seen that Imperial and stolen his Gil purse and then you wouldn't have got on at me and I wouldn't have felt guilty and decided to steal from the Palace.'

Penelo could say nothing as Vaan continued in an animated, impassioned rush of words, none of which made any sense to Penelo.

'So, if I hadn't gone to the Palace I wouldn't have met Balthier and Fran and then Ashe in the Waterway. You wouldn't have been kidnapped, we wouldn't have been in Bhujerba when Ashe went to get Raithwall's treasure and then we wouldn't have gone all that way and seriously kicked Vayne's ass.'

Penelo carefully sipped on her drink while she tried to think of a kindly response to Vaan's lunatic idea, her friend watched her with bright, keen eyes.

'But Vaan a fruit can't do all that.' She said gently.

Vaan shook his head, 'No, but I became like the Star fruit. I was the Star fruit of the whole deal.'

'You became a fruit?' Penelo asked steadily. Sometimes, even after most of a life time knowing him, Vaan could still astound her. Truly she wondered what went on his brain because it clearly wasn't logical.

Vaan picked up on the fact that she was teasing him and glared huffily, 'Penelo, I'm serious. This is good stuff, so you gonna listen to this or just tease me?'

Penelo grinned, 'I'm listening.'

Vaan, too eager to explain his complex theory to his friend to be irritated by her lack of due solemnity, continued.

'Yeah, so as I was saying before you so _rudely_ interrupted me.' He groused. Penelo sighed and mouthed _I'm sorry, _waving him on to continue.

'I'm like the Star fruit because I'm the guy whose not important. See, I'm the one who, like a hundred years from now, people will be saying 'what's so special about him?' and that's because I'm not special or anything. I don't marry the Princess or be the hero or anything, _but_ if I hadn't been there then maybe none of it would have happened. You would never have met Larsa, Ashe would never have met Balthier, Basch would never have been freed. You see?'

Penelo played with her intertwined fingers and really thought about what Vaan said. There was a weird sense to it. She couldn't say he was right, but...she couldn't say he was wrong either.

Vaan must have seen the realisation in her eyes because he put on an expression of all knowledgeable superiority, all at least tried too, and pointed meaningfully at the bowl of fruit in the bowl.

'Yeah, see; _Star fruit_. The simple things change the world and because I'm like the Star fruit in, you know, _our lives_, I say that you have to marry Larsa. Because then I'll be the most important person in all Ivalice and people will say, 'look at that guy, he's the Empress' best friend and he introduced Queen Ashe to her husband.' I will _so_ be a god among men.'

Vaan absently threw each piece of fruit back into the bowl and gave her a poignant and meaningful look, for a moment the two friends simply stared at each other, then as one, they fell about in screaming fits of laughter.

Penelo staggered up from the sofa and went to Vaan, tears of laughter streaming down her face; she hugged him fiercely around the neck.

'Vaan, I love you so much.'

She gasped out when she could breathe again. He was the best friend she could ever have. Who else could make her feel so happy and secure when she was surrounded by people who thought they were better than she was just because they were Archadian and rich and she was Dalmascan and born poor.

Vaan, grinning like a boy, his mission to raise his friends spirits accomplished, nodded and pointed once more at the bowl of fruit.

''Course you do. It's the power of the Star fruit.' He said with the utmost solemnity.

'And the Star fruit commands you to seduce Larsa Solidor and become Empress to make your best friend happy.'

Penelo, eyes shiny from laughter tears, snuggled into her friends return hug, still giggling.

'Oh, really, huh? Then I guess I'd better do it then; can't upset the god of Star fruit.'

'Damn straight.' Vaan said firmly reaching for another of the fruit and taking a healthy bite out of it.

So that, basically, was how it all started, Penelo would always claim later. That was how a girl from Low Town decided to make herself the empress of a huge foreign kingdom and win the heart of the finest emperor who ever lived.

* * *

_A/N: Arrrgggh! This was so hard to write! I've never written Penelo before and wanted her voice to be different from the regal Ashe or well-educated slightly snide Balthier. _

_Also I wanted to shed some light on Vaan and what exactly he thinks about things...who knew he was a fruit flavoured philosopher? And also it's completely true...go back to the beginning of the game and you'll see Vaan eating that mystical fruit! ;)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Bahamut Haven; town founding**

_A/N: Quick note to say thanks for all the positive feedback on the Penelo chapter, I am much more confident with that part of the story now. _

_Also this is a warning; this chapter is dark and brutal. I'm hoping this doesn't go beyond the realms of the teen-rating and obviously I'm writing for the more mature, possibly violence-de-sensitized teenager and above….but anyhoo, this one is dark and tragic so beware. _

* * *

'I, Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca, proudly declare this settlement, known from this day forth as Bahamut Haven, a town in its own right. It is my sincere wish that Bahamut Haven know only prosperity and good health as part of the Kingdom of Dalmasca-Nabradia.' 

Ashe smiled graciously as the congregation who had turned out for the official town opening applauded and then she stepped forward to cut the red ribbon.

Bahamut Haven had sprung into existence in the last year, taking its genesis from a collection of canvas tents used by the labourers and engineers involved in the road building endeavour criss-crossing the desert, as well as the contingent of nomads from Giza who came up to the Bahamut Oasis to settle during the Rains.

Quite swiftly and on the back of Dalmasca's buoyant economy, those labourers and even some of the nomads had begun to set down permanent roots, building houses and the clock tower Ashe stood before now, in no time at all.

Ashe stepped down from the raised dais erected for the purpose of cutting the ribbon and descended the three steps to where the new mayor of Bahamut Haven waited both anxious in her presence and hugely proud of his shiny medallion of office.

'Mayor Migelo, you have raised a fine town here.' She smiled warmly at the entrepreneurial Bangaa who curled his clawed hands around his chains and blustered rather endearingly.

'You are too kind your majesty; 'tis the generosity of your Treasury that allowed this town to bloom.'

It was a tad difficult to understand the Bangaa, former proprietor of the sundries store in Rabanastre and sometime palace caterer, his guttural speech mangled his polite words terribly and Ashe took a moment to untangle the compliment.

'We all benefit from Dalmasca's expansion, sir.'

Ashe could have spent more time in idle chatter and platitudes, especially as Migelo, protector and guardian to Rabanastre's war orphans, was one of her favourite Rabanstran merchants, however she was tired and hungry and the heat was beginning to affect her.

With a keen golden eye, Migelo offered her his arm, 'Would you care to take some refreshment in the town hall, your majesty? We have some fine tapestries the weavers guild wish to show your highness.'

Ashe was tempted to give the Bangaa a knighthood for this smoothly offered excuse to get out of the sun without having to concede to her _condition. _

'I would love to.'

Ashe slipped her arm through the Bangaa's and allowed the new mayor of Bahamut Haven to escort her into the whitewashed and wood beam decorated two storey house that had become the mayor's new abode and the civic centre of this new town. The first new town founded in over fifty years in Dalmasca.

'We have worked closely with the artisan's and merchants of Atholl,' Migelo explained as he guided her and her ever attentive retinue of hangers-on through a large drawing room with wood panelled walls and mullioned windows.

'As you can see the architecture of Bahamut Haven represents a fusion of the best of Dalmascan custom and the stylistic trappings of the Archadian small town.'

Ashe smiled just a little wryly and thought that Migelo was truly a masterful salesman, selling the virtues of his fledgling town to his sovereign with masterfully subtle allusions to a happy merging of Dalmascan history and Archadian innovation.

It was no doubt deliberate, as Ashe had sold her marriage to her people along the same lines, promising that an Archadian consort with a large fortune at his command could only strengthen Dalmasca and open up trade and development her country had not seen in many years.

Ashe was genuinely pleased with the development of Bahamut Haven and also the sprouting of other small, semi-permanent settlements along the route of the new road system being carved out of the desert to each of the compass points, Rabanastre the pivot point at the centre of the Dalmascan revival.

'I have not had opportunity to visit my husband's ancestral seat, sir, but I have heard it is a quaint and picturesque town of some two thousand souls.' Ashe almost qualified this statement by adding _Hume souls; _after all, some forty-nine thousand Atholl sheep called the hills of Atholl their home also.

'Ahh, yes, your Majesty, it is a fine town, but Bahamut Haven shall grow to be finer.'

Migelo gestured towards the dining table in the dining room with its bevelled glass, mullioned windows and glossy wood flooring. The rich silk and wool tapestries depicting traditional allegorical scenes of life and prosperity in Dalmasca framed a beautifully sumptuous luncheon spread laid out on the table.

Ashe wondered if she was visibly salivating as she moved towards the table as if drawn by magnetic forces. Without further ado the Queen and her party set about the important task of engorging themselves on the delicious variety of dishes laid out for their delectation.

Ashe had only recently made her pregnancy public knowledge when, seemingly overnight, she began to show. Already her court pushed food on her whatever the occasion watching her eat and making sure she received the right forms of nourishment and sufficient liquids with hawk eyed concern.

The whole of Rabanastre was delighted and eagerly anticipating the birth of a new heir for Dalmasca; had Ashe been a different woman she might have been vaguely insulted, were her people so dissatisfied with her rule they could not wait for another Dynast heir?

However Ashe knew that this was not the case and so enjoyed the pleasure her condition gave her people.

At just less than five months into her pregnancy the baby was a small protruding bump and not altogether that noticeable, it was still possible for the ill-informed to believe she had just grown a little fat from easy living.

Ashe, herself, was rather hoping the baby would not grow too large in her womb as she did not relish the prospect of being immobilised by a ten pound baby kicking about inside her.

Her attendant midwife, appointed by her privy council, who laboured under the illusion that they had any say in the rearing of the next heir to the Dalmascan throne, usually tried to follow Ashe about wherever she went and fretted over the very fact that Ashe was not gargantuan with child.

'I thought perhaps your husband might be joining us, your majesty?'

Migelo inquired politely drawing her attention back to the moment. A keen hush descended around the table.

Everyone knew Master Balthier was not in Dalmasca, was not at his wife's side during her first pregnancy, and gossip was rife as to his whereabouts and the reason for his absence at such an important and glorious time.

Ashe too was worried about his whereabouts; of course, she had some rough notion of where he was, she knew where she had _ordered_ him to go. However she did not know where precisely he was, Rozzaria was a large territory, or how he fared.

It had been exactly one month and one day since she had dispatched him to Rozzaria and she had heard not one word from Balthier.

The news that reached her, from Rozzarian spies and escaping refugees who flooded Dalmasca's southern most borders, of the ghastly tales of the sacking of the ports, the burnings of innocent civilians, and the destruction of the vineyards to the north filled her daily with fear.

Rozzaria was in a tumult of violence and war that made the battle for Nalbina seem like a small skirmish. Ashe could only be thankful that Rozzaria had never pursued Nethicite weaponry as Archadia had, for she feared that Mishman and the fanatics of the Kiltia Ascendancy would decimate Rozzaria in order to ensure their new order took root in the ashes of the old empire.

'My husband is currently away on personal business, sir, though I expect him back very shortly.' Ashe smiled for Migelo's benefit and remained undaunted by the curious gazes of those around her.

Rumours abounded that Ashe had banished Balthier for some form of perfidy or adultery and he was secretly languishing in the deep dungeons of Nalbina. Other gossip had it that Balthier had abandoned her and escaped the city with an airship full of treasury gold, in the nature of feckless, untrustworthy sky pirates.

Ashe did nothing to stop the spread of those rumours, because she had no means of successfully debunking them and the truth must, of course, remain a carefully guarded secret.

Still, Balthier would be livid when he returned to discover his reputation in ruins (not to mention, Ashe thought dryly, the state of his Fomalhaut. She had put in an order to have the rifle replaced and hopefully he would never know the difference, certainly Ashe would never tell him how she had come to bend the barrel in such a way when he returned.)

_If _he returned.

Ashe stopped eating, hesitating as the sweet taste of the brandy soaked, baked Succulent Fruit soured and curdled in her mouth. Her stomach threatened to go into open revolt and she laid her cutlery down quietly and swallowed tightly.

Ashe did not believe Balthier was in mortal danger. She very much hoped he had the intelligence and survival instinct to know that she would not expect him to die to save Al-Cid, but she did fear that he might choose to feign death, as he had once before, never to return again.

'Excuse me, gentlemen, ladies, I will be back presently.'

Ashe rose from the table and left the dining room as swiftly as propriety allowed, seeking out a bathroom. She had developed a near uncanny ability to find washrooms since her pregnancy began at the most inopportune moments and the ability did not fail her now.

Once inside the small well furnished room Ashe took a moment to study her reflection in the gilt framed, rather elaborately ugly, mirror over the sink. She looked pale and faint and immediately Ashe frowned irritably. She did not like to show any sign of weakness or fatigue.

Ashe pressed her hands to her bulging abdomen and the baby kicked her sharply in the kidneys, causing her to wince but also smile, the baby was certainly capable of making itself heard. Ashe suspected that her baby would most likely inherit her own rather sharp temper.

Presently Ashe felt able to return to the dining room, shooing the three attending ladies who had loitered like clucking hens outside the bathroom door ahead of her with slight irritation.

She was pregnant not an invalid and Ashe was still more capable of protecting herself from harm than any of these soft-handed, weak wristed waifs.

The rest of the day was pleasantly uneventful and Ashe and her retinue returned to the palace well-fed and in good spirits. The late afternoon and early evening was spent going over legislative matters, looking over financial mandates and other details of governance that allowed her to think no more on her absent husband or the war in Rozzaria.

Ashe was taking in the dust air, which was the nicest time of the day, a balmy breeze swirling around her gardens carrying the tantalising promise of the gathering Rains, when the hackles on the back of her neck rose.

Every considerable warrior's instinct she possessed screamed in her mind that she was not alone. There was someone downwind of her, hidden in the shadows of her walled garden, watching her.

Ashe gave no visible sign of her sudden unease, she did not reach for the dagger hanging from her belt, nor did she make a move to ring the hanging bell cord to summon an attendant guard. If an assassin waited in the wings he would be upon her before her guards could reach her.

'Come out and show yourself, I am not intimidated by those who lurk in shadows.'

Ashe called imperiously, turning towards the scuffing footsteps as a male figure in off-white robes materialised from the shadows of one of the archways.

'Who are you and how dare you trespass in my private garden?'

Ashe pulled the blade free of the sheath as the hooded man, whose robes, dirty and travel stained reminding her faintly of the ecumenical robes of the Kiltia save for the colour, did not answer and instead swept forward with a powerful, predatory grace.

Ashe took up a fighter's stance, though her condition made it less than comfortable, and raised the dagger, cursing herself vociferously for having only a paltry knife and not a sword or a rifle to defend herself.

'Ivalice will not be your private garden any longer, heathen.'

The man's voice was rough and harsh and Ashe barely had time to register his words or the just detectable Rozzarian accent, as from the folds of his cloak, the man withdrew a curved sword, a crescent scimitar blade.

Ashe waited until the man was all but upon her and then twisted away from him reaching out and yanking on the bell cord to summon her guards. She turned swiftly again to face her attacker and ducked as his scything blade sliced the cord in half.

All her worst fears were coming to fruition as the simple act of ducking under a blade was made more difficult by the baby ripening in her womb.

Her mobility and agility greatly compromised, she found herself also lacking protective armour. For the first time in her life Ashe knew real fear in battle; not for her own life but for the budding existence inside her.

The large, robed man tackled her catching hold of the edge of her skirts and hauling Ashe off her feet. She managed to catch her balance, pivoted on her heels and threw up her arms to block the slicing blow aimed for neck.

The sword cleaved flesh from her forearms, but adrenaline, the overwhelming monstrous fear and desire to protect her unborn child, washed away the first shuddering wave of pain and shock.

'Faram is the only authority. No longer will Kiltia play to the whims of mere mortals. The scourge of the heretic Dynast King will be wiped from the face of Ivalice.'

Ashe could see the man's dark, swarthy unshaven face, his proud, wide nose and flaring nostrils as he spat in her face and threw her against the wall.

Ashe hit the wall hard, back slamming into the trellis wrapped in flowering tendrils of Paradise Roses. A shower of pungent flaming orange petals rained down as Ashe crashed into the criss-crossing wooden construct and stumbled forward onto her knees, her back aflame with pain.

'I will cut the heretical spawn from you.'

Ashe lunged with her knife as the man reached for her. Her aim was not good, her grip on the blade slick from the blood pouring from the sword wounds on her forearms, and the plunging stabbing wound she had intended end up scraping across his ribs without penetrating flesh or muscle.

The man snarled a Rozzarian curse and kicked savagely with his foot, Ashe did her best to dodge the blow but the metal tip of his heavy, travel boot connected with her stomach.

A surge of sickening pain went through her and it seemed that she could feel the pain doubly; pure fury over took her at the thought of her baby being hurt.

The knife, still clutched in her cut, bleeding, trembling hand became an extension of her very self as she launched herself upwards with a power that had at it's root the ferocious protective rage of a mother fighting for a child.

'How dare you threaten my child!'

Scant few inches above five feet and Ashe still managed to throw her full weight at the much taller man, over powering him and causing the man to fall backwards, with a savagery that defied physical injury Ashe knocked away the man's scimitar, his sword arm pinned underneath her weight as she straddled him, knees pressing down on his chest.

'Bitch queen, Kiltia will purge your filthy taint from Ivalice and a new dawn of Faram will come.'

The man snarled defiantly as Ashe raised the dagger up above her head and brought the dagger down with a simple, elemental fury.

Blood spurted up like a geyser from the stab wound to the neck Ashe inflicted. She was momentary blinded by the hot gush of crimson that splashed her face, before tears of terror washed her vision clean.

'Your majesty!'

A clatter of metal heralded the arrival of her guard. Ashe staggered to her feet off the dead man and wiped at her face.

'Where were you?' She screamed at the nearest guard, a man she did not know. 'This man was in the gardens! How could you let an intruder in here?'

Not waiting for the frightened man to answer Ashe pushed her bloody dagger into his hands and turned away.

She looked for Vaan, before she remembered that he was visiting Penelo in Archades, leaving her bereft of any support she could trust.

_I sent my captain away. I sent my most trusted lady-in-waiting away. I demanded my husband leave my side. Did I bring this on myself?_

'Search the body. I want to know who this man was and whom he worked with.'

She snarled lurching towards the doors back into her palace intent on sending an immediate, emergency communiqué to Larsa in Archades and her uncle Halim to let them know of this attack.

Suddenly she staggered, a wave of nausea and pain stopping her and causing her to fall painfully against one of the archways. She was slick and stinking with spilled blood, but something made her pull up the ruined tatters of her skirt, undaunted by the men gathered all around.

She pulled her skirts right up until she could see her bulging abdomen.

'Sweet Faram, save us!'

One of her guards who had followed her as she made her way into the palace stared white faced at her exposed stomach as Ashe began to shake uncontrollably.

'Healer! Quickly gather the healers, the Queen has been injured!' The guard started screaming.

Ashe could only stand frozen in place and staring at the ugly, red, weeping gash bisecting her stomach, scoring her womb.

Grey and white spots gathered at the corners of her vision and bile rose in her throat as she watched, transfixed, the blood trailing down her legs from her stomach.

The guard reached for her as the world reeled and swirled about her. She fought against his hold as white hot, yet icy, sweat drenched her brow.

'No! No kiltia, no Faram! It was they who did this to me! They tried to kill my baby!'

Ashe lost her balance and smacked down heavily onto her knees, even though the guard tried to catch her.

Many feet gathered around her, watching the spectacle of the Queen on her knees, some wore metal boots and some wore the delicate soft soled court shoes. Ashe could not bring herself to look up to see faces.

She could barely see her crimson slicked stomach as her vision wavered. She could not breathe, could not draw breath as a scream of absolute horror lodged in her throat.

She heard many voices; panicked, frightened voices calling out to her, crying out for orders, commands, reassurance, none of which she could give. How could she give guidance when the gods had turned on her innocent baby?

_I will cut the heretical spawn from you. _

'Nonononono.' Ashe moaned placing shaking hands over her stomach, feeling the stinging, deep pain of the sword slash across her skin.

Never in her twenty-four years of life had Ashe known horror like this. Not when she was widowed, orphaned and declared dead at seventeen, not even when she had watched Vayne Solidor become an airborne anathema, nor borne witness to the Bahamut's slow collapse into the sands.

For the first time in her life Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca knew only despair as, moaning like a wounded animal, she folded in on herself and collapsed, bleeding, to the rosy petal pink mosaic tiled floor of her palace outer courtyard.

She had no one to address her prayers too as she started to slip, drowning in deep, treacherous waters, under the inky wave of unconscious oblivion.

One last, red hot surge of anger rose in her, gave Ashe the strength for one final whispered command before blackness took her.

'...drive them out…….all Kiltia. Drive them from the city...don't let them near my baby…..'

And then she was gone, lost to all entreaties, all shouts and cries of dismay, her soul in turmoil, and alone in a drowning deep well of pain and grief enough to stop her heart.

* * *

_A/N: ...told you this was tragic : (_

_!!!Spoiler!!!...don't want it, don't read below!_

_Even I'm not _**that**_ cruel….so for all concerned, don't worry...Ashe doesn't lose the baby. Especially as I have a name picked out and everything!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Rozzaria; the port of Pentacuusa**

_A/N: Okay…..so I figured it was time to shed a little light on Balthier's baby issues, but in my mind the leading man does not do introspection...(think about feelings, Balthier'd rather stick needles in his eyes)...so he needed a physical reason to start thinking about children...thus this chapter._

* * *

The smoke was so thick, so all-pervasive that visibility was non-existent. Balthier followed the sounds of sobbing, piteous and bleating, that carried through the spark laden smog. 

He followed Fran, one hand outstretched so his fingers brushed her back keeping track of her. Fran followed her nose and her ears and wound a path through the debris littering the ground.

He and Fran had visited the port of Pentacuusa a number of times. Situated at the mouth of an ocean in-let Pentacuusa was one of Rozzaria's leading ports – or at least it had been – now it was a charnel pit.

Balthier conjured a mental image of the port's circular inner streets, which wound around the central clock tower in a number of concentric circles connected by smaller, narrow alleys that spanned the circular main roads like the spokes of a wheel.

He tried to superimpose that image of the port over the vague outline of devastation he could just see around him and surmised that he was close to the central ring, near the clock tower.

As it happened he almost tripped over the imperilled civilian he and Fran had headed out to rescue. Balthier stared into a pair of wide open eyes that had already grown filmy with death and flaked with ash.

The woman's face was caught in a rictus of startled surprise, as if death had come as a bit of a shock to her. There was a still weeping wound to her chest that looked at least as if it offered swift death.

Sighing Balthier squatted down beside the woman and gently closed her eyes. Another soul for Faram's taking. The Kiltia Ascendancy and their favoured son Mishman had wracked up quite a tally already. The glorious afterworld promised to the faithful of Faram would soon become over-crowded, it seemed.

Fran had not waited while he accorded this woman what little dignity in death he could and instead strode off out of the dilapidated ruin of this dockside former residence to sniff out the still living.

Balthier, fighting a fatigue that went straight to the bone, permeating muscle and mind, until sleep and rest was an impossibility he readied himself to stand and follow her, not wanting to be left behind with the dead.

He was therefore completely caught by surprise when a tiny, dirty hand clasped his sleeve, stopping him. Balthier reacted instinctively, as a man who has walked miles through a country transformed into one huge open grave, would.

'Bloody hell!'

He thought he was more horrified to find his small knife pressing into the soft skin of the little child's neck than the dull eyed infant was.

He dropped the knife as if it had burned his hand and stared at the tiny waif who had materialised, much as a ghost, from the sulphuric yellow haze of smoke, fire and death.

The child, whose huge eyes seemed to take up more room in her face than any other single feature, opened her mouth on a complicated prattling that was incomprehensible to him.

The infant, who was a tiny collection of stick-like bones, all elbows and knobbly knees, clutched at his leather clad knee and pointed impatiently at the body of the woman.

'…uma, uma, uma.'

It did not take a linguist to understand what the infant was trying to impart. The body was this infant's mother. Balthier sighed again, wishing Fran had been the one to find the small child and not him (he did not even like children!) but alas there was no point crying over spilt milk.

Knowing that there was little point in trying to communicate with the small infant girl, even had he had the capacity it was not his responsibility to break it to the infant that she had joined the sad ranks, numbered in the hundreds of thousands across Ivalice, of war orphans, so instead he grabbed hold of the startled little one and carried her outside.

'I had thought you lost.' Fran chided gently as she located him out on the fog and ash covered street.

'I found a live one.' He replied, more preoccupied with the squirming bundle in his arms that yelped out _uma! _far too loudly considering the soldiers of Faram were not too far away, possibly still in the city.

'Fran can you do something about this?'

The child was trying to climb over his shoulder and launch herself back towards the bombed out house, wriggling and squirming with the tenacity of a behemoth cub.

Fran reached out to touch the child's tangled hair and attracted the infant's attention, she spoke quietly in gentle tones to the infant, who promptly burst into tears and buried her small head into his shoulder.

'Oh, well done Fran.'

He muttered darkly less than impressed to have a mewling, sniffling, filthy infant attached like a barnacle to him, drenching his shirt with sooty tears. He tried to pluck the child from him, but it would not budge. _Bloody brat._

'I don't suppose…?' He raised his eyebrows inquiringly to Fran and nodded to the snivelling bony bundle in his arms.

'We must return to Al-Cid, death has claimed this town, I smell only fire and decay in the air.'

Fran deliberately ignored his query, clearly having no desire to handle the wet, whimpering Hume infant either.

Balthier, shifting the infant in his arms so he could carry her, was morbidly aware that, hindered by the child, he would struggle to draw and fire his gun if need be.

As they travelled through the now eerily quiet port, the silence punctuated only by the occasional rolling crash of falling buildings and the mournful, but thankfully muffled, snuffled sobs of the infant, Balthier found his thoughts wandering where he did not want them to go.

He had been so immersed in Rozzaria's rapid collapse into bloody anarchy that time had escaped him, but he imagined that he had been in Rozzaria some five weeks. How did Ashe fair; and……..what about the baby?

Balthier shook his head harshly; closing the door firmly on that line of reverie and in doing so disturbed the perch of the little clinging infant clutched against his chest. He found himself face to face with the moon-faced infant whose cheeks were splotchy with tears and nose running thickly with sooty mucus.

_Charming, just enchanting; really, how could anyone fail to be captivated by such a delightful infant? Do these Rozzarian's have any manners whatsoever? _

Fastidiously Balthier pushed his handkerchief into a chubby little hand, the infant looked at the soft cotton square blankly and sniffed revoltingly. The long viscous string of mucus retracted back up her nasal passage only to seep back down over her quivering lips again.

'Oh, for the love of…' Balthier hissed in irritation. Really did children have to be so unsanitary? He wiped the child's face none too gently and pushed the wadded handkerchief into her grubby little hands.

Balthier carried on walking, deliberately trying to ignore the child in his arms, who was at least still now, now longer wriggling about and squirming awkwardly.

However he did not get very far before he stopped abruptly as a wet, diffuse heat covered his sleeve and ran down his shirt a little.

Balthier swore passionately and pried the filthy brat off him, 'Fran, do something with this child.'

He held her, with his arms outstretched at full extension from his body. The infant dangled, bare feet kicking, as she urinated onto the ground, and he had to forcibly resist the impulse to drop the horrible little thing onto the rubble strewn broken cobbled street.

Fran turned back when she heard the commotion and snatched the now whimpering child from his arms.

'She is but a babe, Balthier, a babe of your own species, treat her with some kindness.' Fran snapped at him.

Balthier, who had something of an irrational dislike of infants, extending to every facet of childhood from the noise and the sickly smell of children to their inability to keep clean, glowered back at Fran.

'I have no aptitude for children, Fran, you know this.'

Fran cradled the child in her long arms and shushed the wet, stinking thing with gentle murmurs in her own, ancient, melodious Viera tongue. Presently, with the blasted apart gates of the port rising from the orange glooming smog before them, the infant quieted.

As they breached the fallen wall of the port town, Balthier drew his gun in case of any Kiltia patrols as they made their way back to Al-Cid. The child, her dark head poking over Fran's shoulder, watched him with those vacuous black eyes and chewed dumbly on his handkerchief.

He found the vacant eyed scrutiny uncomfortable. It invoked thoughts he did not want to dwell on.

How far along would Ashe be now; five or maybe six months? How large would the baby be? Balthier had no real understanding of these sorts of things. In fact he was not sure he had ever been in the company of a pregnant woman.

One did not come into contact over much with newborns and expectant mothers in the vocation of sky piracy, after all. Looking into the blank eyed glassy stare of this Rozzarian infant Balthier wondered what colour of eye a child of Ashe's would have.

It would likely be some variation on the shade of blue, no doubt, although Ashe's mother had been of Bhujerban stock and they were altogether darker in colouring. His own eyes were brown, perhaps the babe's would be too?

Balthier scowled and looked about him hopefully for a passing partrol of blood-thirsty Kiltia or Provosts loyal to Mishman. He was eager for a distraction from the almost hypnotic gaze of the stolid infant and his own treacherous thoughts.

Intellectually he had always known that the matter of the Dalmascan succession would need to be resolved. He knew also that his marriage contract to Ashe confirmed that any children born of their union would be considered legitimate heirs to the throne; legitimate _Dynast heirs. _

As he himself had no claim to Raithwall's blood, the notion that these fruits of their union would be called _Dynast _heirs neatly divorced him, through the delights of legal dictates, from the process of their conception.

It had been a comfort; as it allowed him to neatly defer all responsibility for their offspring's upbringing to Ashe. In fact the contract seemed to suggest that the glorious Ashelia was capable of immaculate conception.

Balthier had decided not too long after he had taken his new name and decided to turn his life into a bawdy and exciting work of fiction (the leading man, indeed) that he would have no children. He had no desire to continue his father's line, or repeat the mistakes he and Cid had made with a son of his own.

To this end it was a great, though secret, worry to Balthier that he may have sowed his wild oats a little too freely in his late adolescence, newly escaped from Archades and drunk on rebellion and freedom as he had been. However no bastard children of Bunansa had ever surfaced and Balthier had never desired to go and look.

He and Fran stopped walking as they finished climbing the steep incline towards the edge of the woods above the port of Pentacuusa and looked down on the smoking ruin of the port city.

'I do not understand the Hume imperative to destroy that which you yourselves build. To destroy and rent the air with the tang of blood for such intangibles as what comes after life's flame is quenched. It is nonsensical.'

Fran said softly as they watched the blackened silhouettes of burning ships in the harbour, haloed in flickering orange and gold flame, there masts and sails ablaze; the sounds of crashing, burning timber and the rushing clatter of shingled roofs caving in below them, was muted by the thick swirl of mist and smoke.

Balthier did not answer Fran. There were no answers. No justification for the loss of such a vibrant, prosperous, vital settlement. The little infant twisted about in the cradle of Fran's arms and clutched at his shirt sleeve; his handkerchief was halfway into her mouth and slick with saliva.

Balthier attempted to take a surreptitious step away, out of the infant's clinging grip. Fran frowned at him sharply.

'This behaviour is unbecoming of the leading man.' She chided and then she thrust the infant towards him with an expression that brooked no argument.

Balthier found himself with the bad smelling, damp little girl clinging to him with the same persistence as the vines and creeping tendrils of the humid, close and dark Golmore jungle.

'What is this supposed to solve?'

He asked a little irritably as the girl dropped her head heavily, but seemingly quite contentedly, onto his shoulder, sucking avidly on his spit-sodden handkerchief.

'The child derives comfort from you. Her peace of mind is of more import than yours. Such grief can corrode the soul of such a young Hume.'

'Right.' He replied shortly. 'And this has nothing to do with the…_matter_…regarding Ashe that we discussed prior to setting out on this gods forsaken trip?'

Fran had known Ashe was pregnant before he had, ironically enough. Fran's keen senses catching the change in scent and the shift in the sounds of her body rhythms, though she had said nothing until after he had come to her with the news, unable to keep it to himself.

Fran gave him an unsympathetic look, 'If you see parallels I suggest you take time to reflect on them.'

Fran had little patience for his lack of enthusiasm regarding Ashe's pregnancy and he did not blame her.

In truth he was not at peace with himself either. He knew he should be pleased with the news; certainly his displeasure did not extend to Ashe herself, who he loved no less. He just wished she was not pregnant. He also wished he could look upon the advent of a baby with something other than mounting depression.

Sighing mournfully, and loudly enough that the infant in his arms (he should probably endeavour to discover the child's name, he could not call the girl _Infant _indefinitely, after all) looked up at him with surprise and then giggled.

Fran led the way towards the tiny encampment where Al-Cid and his birds awaited news from their scouting mission.

'You return, my friends!'

Al-Cid did not look much like his old self. Dressed much like Balthier himself, in indiscriminate rags in shades of grey and brown so as to blend in with most environments, Al-Cid's face was covered in five days beard growth and his dark eyes carried the weight of guilt for his country's wrack and ruin.

'What news, does Pentacuusa still stand?'

Al-Cid garnered his answer from the silence Balthier and Fran greeted him with, the sight of the filthy child in Balthier's arms, the foul stench of burning and death that clung to the two of them.

Al-Cid closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed the bridge of his nose, 'Survivors?'

Balthier shrugged as much as he could with a child in his arms and nodded to the girl.

'She is all we found. Your brother's forces had no interest in occupying the port. They merely sacked, pillaged and left the town to burn. It appears your brother has more interest in ruling over a funerary pyre than a living empire.'

There was little bite to Balthier's words. He was too tired, too worn down by the constant, never-ending destruction they had picked their way through over the last month to bother with caustic wit.

Blue Bird (recovered from her near death experience) stepped up beside Al-Cid and lightly touched her master's worn sleeve in silent support before stepping forward to open her arms to the child. The little girl looked from Blue Bird to Balthier and buried her head in his shoulder.

Al-Cid almost smiled, 'You 'ave made anudder admirer, eh?'

Balthier sighed and shook his head trying not to scowl. He knew his aversion to children was not particularly socially acceptable, nor rational, and so would endeavour in mixed company to tolerate this child until such time as he could parcel her off to some more suitable carer.

Al-Cid stepped forward and touched the back of the girls head. He spoke to the child in their shared language and left Balthier feeling again, somewhat foolish to be surrounded by a language he could not comprehend, potentially missing a wealth of important information. He did not like being left in the dark.

After a moment Al-Cid stroked the child's chubby cheek and clucked her under the chin affectionately.

'De child name is Alfayna and she believes that she is some t'ree year of age,' Al-Cid smiled wryly and shrugged when Balthier frowned, 'I do not believe the little one, she know yet how to count, eh.'

Balthier nodded, 'She needs clean clothes, perhaps also some food.'

He managed to detach the child from his person and hand her off to Al-Cid who seemed to have some ease with children, but then he had many siblings and was probably inured to being dribbled upon.

'We 'ave made some small fire, dere is roasting hare, you eat then we make forward motion for Mikanel.'

Al-Cid nodded to the spit over the camp fire where a collection of the riff-raff and misbegotten refugees they had collected along the road side during their travails gathered. Perhaps some among their sad number would take care of the _infa_…no _Alfayna? _

Balthier had initially objected to Al-Cid's insistence to gather the refugees about him, pointing out that they did not have the resources for a large group of people and the more people with them the more chance they all had of being apprehended.

Al-Cid had agreed with him politely, thanked he and Fran for all their assistance and reminded Balthier that he and Fran could travel much more easily and safely alone than with he and his birds, but he, Al-Cid, would not abandon his people when they needed him.

Balthier had contemplated either throttling the self-righteous fop or calling the man's bluff and leaving, however not even sanctimonious Rozzarian's were enough to see him fail in a task Ashe had set him. He would see this foolhardy mission through to its bloody conclusion even if it killed him.

After a poor meal of thin vegetable broth and stringy hare meat, Balthier found himself a cleaner shirt and joined Al-Cid who stood in discussion with his birds.

Initially Balthier had wondered how Al-Cid could in fact converse with three mutes, was it not much like having a conversation with himself?

However having been in the acquaintance of the three women for over a month he had come to recognise that each woman could express more with a pointed look or tapping foot than he could with a entire dictionary of words and phrases.

Right now it appeared Green Bird was in some debate with Al-Cid who spoke quietly and fluently in his own tongue, clearly attempting to persuade her of some contentious point. Blue Bird, whose partiality to the deposed Margrace was something more than platonic in Balthier opinion, stood close to her master while Tiny Bird (the least demonstrative of the trio) stood placidly by, seemingly uninterested in the debate.

Alfayna sat peaceable (and, Balthier noted, almost smothered in a man's sized shirt, which while not particular appropriate for the tiny child, was at least clean) on the mossy ground protectively bracketed in by the circle of the adults legs. She played with a collection of sticks and Balthier's now filthy handkerchief cooing to herself.

'Is something amiss?'

Balthier inquired dryly stepping up to the foursome, the little child looked up suddenly at the sound of his voice and got to her feet, Balthier eyed the child sceptically and then returned his attention to Al-Cid.

Al-Cid was exchanging expressive and meaningful looks with Green Bird whose folded arms across her chest and tapping foot clearly emphasised her annoyance.

'Tell me, Balthier, do you know why I wear de yellow?'

Al-Cid escaped the angry circle of his birds and stepped up to Balthier. At more or less the same time Alfayna took advantage of the opening between the adults' legs and tottered over to Balthier as well, clamping her arms around his leg.

'Pardon?'

Balthier could only pay partial attention to Al-Cid as he again forcibly resisted the urge to shake the child off his leg.

He dearly wished he could tolerate children. Balthier knew it did not speak well of his character that he found them more repellent than the Dire Rats infesting Rabanastre's Garamsthye waterway, but he could not seem to help it.

Reluctantly Balthier bent down and scooped up the child, who was at least clean now.

Alfayna babbled something in her lazy mother tongue and tried to present him with the monstrously filthy remnant of his handkerchief. Balthier ignored the offered gift and turned to Al-Cid who seemed keen to walk a little distance from the dagger eyed Green Bird.

'De yellow, my friend, why I wear de yellow jacket?'

Balthier looked at Al-Cid as they walked to the other side of the fire, not far from where Fran was sleeping upon the leaf strewn ground of the clearing and the dozen or so gathered refugees clustered about arguing over the last dregs of the soup.

'I can't say I had given your sartorial tastes much mind.' Balthier finally replied having been caught a little off guard by the strange question.

Al-Cid nodded, a slight smile playing over his lips at the faintly acerbic tone to Balthier's voice.

'Yellow, in Rozzaria, she is de colour of peace. I drape myself in de colour yellow for I wish to be de man o' peace, eh.'

Balthier attempted to turn his head to question Al-Cid further but at that moment Alfayna curled her fingers around one of Balthier's ear-rings and attempted to yank the silver twist right out of his ear lobe. Swiftly Balthier caught her hand and pulled it away, ear throbbing from the painful tug.

Al-Cid stifled a snicker and Balthier glared balefully at the man, wondering as he did so why it was that _he_ was carrying the girl when she was one of Al-Cid's citizens, should this not be Margrace's duty?

'As I was saying, my friend, I 'ave many de time call myself de man o' peace, but never until now been call to prove it, eh? Now I find dat my principles dey demand I stand to prove my claims. Hide I can no longer, not as Mishman allow his fanaticism to destroy our homeland.'

Balthier again had to jerk his head away sharply as Alfayna made another keen lunge for his ear-ring. 'I do not think I like the sound of this Al-Cid. Martyrdom for yourself will not alleviate your people's suffering.'

Not to mention Ashe would be livid if he returned to Rabanastre only to report he had snatched Al-Cid from his brother's clutches only to stand idly by so that Al-Cid could live out some ill-conceived altruistic desire to die for his people.

Al-Cid shook his head ruefully, 'Credit me wit' some intellect my friend.' He replied dryly.

'I am not planning to surrender to my brother, Balthier, but I do not intend to depart wit' you on de Strahl. I will travel to Mikanel to raise an army of de people against my brother an' his corrupted Kiltia. The tribal lands of the Mikanel desert are not yet fallen to Mishman's madness and de Bedyan tribes have little time for de word of Faram.'

Balthier raised his eyebrows critically, jerking his head to the side irritably as Alfayna reached for his ear-ring yet again.

'An army of the people? To do what; walk resolutely and peacefully into your brother's cannonade fire?'

Balthier sneered, and as if in reproof for his tone, Alfayna successfully grabbed his ear and tugged hard on the silver ornament piercing his ear-lobe.

In frustration Balthier shifted the child in his arms and pulled off his bracelet from his right wrist thrusting it into the child's greedy hands. Alfayna immediately ferried the new curio into her mouth, babbling like a cheerful brook and forgetting all about his ear-ring.

Al-Cid smiled and although the expression on his face bore no resemblance to the look that overcame Ashe when she stood on her royal high-horse and spoke passionately and at nauseating length on the debt of servitude she owed her subjects to protect them and lead them by example, Balthier recognised that proud, fervent look in Al-Cid's eyes as one he had seen many a time in his wife's.

'Religion is powered by de people my friend. Mishman deposed me by turnin' de people against me, using de rhetoric of Faram and the threat to de people's immortal souls to rouse deir discontent. Yet if de people's voice is turned against de Kiltia, against de priests of Faram who would separate de people's flesh from deir souls in blood and fire, my brother's power fades. De people will rise up once more to overcome him.'

'And if the people should decide they want shot of the both of you, then I suppose you will abide by that, hmm?' Balthier did not attempt to hide his incredulity.

Al-Cid inclined his head, graciously, 'If it is de people's will.' Al-Cid said simply them turned his attention to the breaking of their camp.

'You do realise, of course,' Balthier interrupted ironically, 'that Rozzaria is supposed to be a monarchy, not a democracy? The people's will is somewhat irrelevant in the matters of anointed Emperors.'

Al-Cid accepted the reproof mildly enough, 'For de moment, though I am no enemy to democracy.'

Al-Cid replied silkily then briskly walked away before Balthier had opportunity to respond. He called to Balthier over his shoulder.

'If we move fast Mikanel is but five days foot travel from 'ere. I 'ave kept you from de Lady Ashe too long, Rozzaria must resolve her own problems. We must make haste.'

Balthier was left standing with the dwindling embers of the camp fire at his back Alfayna peaceable nestled in his arms. He looked down on the child who sleepily lifted her head to regard him placidly.

Balthier sighed, 'Well I suppose you and all Rozzaria are doomed; caught between a religious fanatic and a pacifist idealist. Perhaps I should take you with Fran and I when we leave this bloody country behind and introduce you to a true monarch, hmm?'

Although she could not have understood one syllable of what he had just said to her, Alfayna smiled sloppily and held out his own bracelet for him, liberally slathered with her saliva.

Balthier sighed deeply and shook his head despairingly, 'No, no, I insist, you keep it.'

He curled the chubby little digits of her hand around the pink and purple bracelet and the little girl gurgled appreciatively.

Yes, Balthier thought amused, he could just imagine Ashe's face, if he were to present her with an infant child, while her own offspring still grew in the womb. Gracious pleasure was unlikely to factor highly in her subsequent reactions.

Perhaps, seeing what newborns inevitably grew into would give her some sympathy towards his own less than rapturous reaction to her pregnancy? But then again, he rather doubted it.

* * *

_A/N: next up Penelo gets advice from not one but two street ears._


	7. Chapter 7

**The Archadian Interlude part two**

_A/N: hello everyone! Over thirty reviews! Thank you all so much. _

* * *

Penelo had discovered quite quickly that she did not know how to be seductive. She didn't know how or where to begin.

Reclining with elegance was not an option of course, there was nothing alluring about rolling off a chair and smacking your head on the floor and Penelo had the unerring talent to fall sound asleep if she laid down for more than ten minutes at a time.

It didn't help that Vaan had told her she snored like a bellows too. She hadn't believed him until he'd accused her of doing so five years ago during their quest with Ashe and in front of Basch.

Penelo had tried to enlist Basch's help, because he was always so polite, and Basch had stuttered and gone pink in the ears when she asked him if she really did snore and suddenly realised he had something really important he had to and left without answering. Vaan had laughed himself sick, she remembered.

Penelo had been mortified and refused to allow herself to fall to sleep the next night only to almost keel over with exhaustion the following day. It wasn't so much that she _did_ snore, that bothered her, as it was the fact that it might disturb everyone else.

Giving up on reclining Penelo had tried to be 'demure'. Being demure, as far as Penelo could see, seemed to involve being rather lethargic and limp. Walking around as if half asleep and smiling half-heartedly when someone said anything to you. Or at least, that was what the women in Archades did.

Penelo had never seen the sense of doing anything half-heartedly. If a task was important enough to involve heart it was important enough to involve all a person's heart. So Penelo always smiled fully and walked with a skip in her step because she knew that her brothers' and her parents would never walk or smile again. She counted her blessings daily.

However Penelo soon forgot all about being either demure or alluring when the news reached Archades from Dalmasca that Ashe had been attacked. Vaan had rushed back to Rabanastre, but Penelo, as official envoy, had to stay behind to pass on a confidential communiqué to Larsa.

This was why she was running through the corridors of the Imperial Palace trying to find the Emperor in her bare feet and hair unbound, because she had been too upset by the news to worry about appearances.

'Mr Tayburn...Mr Tayburn!'

Penelo spotted the man in his officially red and gold livery and waved across the length of the gallery (which was what the Archadian's called the extra wide corridors with the settles and recliners laid out in front of the huge windows where the courtiers busied themselves being demure and refined).

For once Penelo found it easy to ignore the whispers hissing along the gallery as she ran, her bare feet flap-flapping over the cool red marble, chasing after Larsa's chief steward (who did not like her and was probably ignoring her on purpose).

Penelo did not care and easily caught up with the man running the fifty yards to the far end of the corridor to catch hold of the tail of the man's frock coat before he could disappear through a heavy black wood door.

'Excuse me, Madam, can I help you?' chief steward Tayburn, looked down his beaky nose at Penelo and plucked his coat tails from her sweaty grip. Penelo heard the hissing whisper of nasty snickering at her back but kept her hers fixed on Mr Tayburn.

'Mr Tayburn, where is Larsa? I need to speak with him right away.' Penelo asked breathlessly.

The steward raised one thin, high arching eyebrow and pursed his thin lips. Behind her back another pit of hissing complaint reached her ears that she had dared call Larsa by his given name and not by title (even though, technically, Larsa was not her Emperor and he had never minded her calling him by his name.)

'The _Emperor _is indisposed at the moment, miss.' Tayburn said coldly making sure she knew he hadn't liked her not using Larsa's title. 'Contrary to your expectations, his lordship does not exist solely for your convenience.'

Penelo felt her cheeks flush with anger and embarrassment and was very aware of the Ladies of the court laughing at her behind their ornamental fans and their beautifully manicured fingers.

'I need to speak with him as soon as possible.' Penelo pressed, grabbing hold of the man when Tayburn tried to walk away from her.

The steward, who was never so rude to any of the other diplomats and envoys staying at the Imperial palace, tried to pull his coat lapel from her grip, but Penelo was stronger than she looked and kept a firm hold.

'I have an urgent, private, communiqué from my Queen to his _Lordship.'_

Penelo pointed out boldly, refusing to release her hold on Tayburn who was making a fool of himself trying to pry her hands off his coat. Penelo knew how to fight and kept her footwork dainty and stepped with him, so he couldn't twist away from her.

She was upset, panic and fear and deep anguish for Ashe giving her the courage to face down this man, just as she had all those hateful Imperial soldiers who used to try and intimidate her into giving them free goods when she tended Migelo's store during Rabanastre's occupation.

Penelo hadn't backed down to them and she wouldn't back down now, because this wasn't about her and whether she was good enough to be in Larsa's presence, this was about Ashe, and Dalmasca and doing the right thing.

'It is a matter of life and death and _you_ don't even have the authority to stop me when I'm on officially business.'

She told him angrily, almost shoving the horrible, rude man into the door he was trying to run away through as she let go of him and rested her hands on her hips.

She didn't know what made her say what she said next, except that Vaan's words were still in her ears and she knew somehow that nothing else would get the man to tell her where Larsa was.

'What do you think Larsa will say if he finds out that _you_ stopped me from passing on essential information, huh?' she demanded, 'That it was you, his steward, that sent me away when I was trying to get word to him of a possible threat to his life?'

Penelo was not a tall woman, she had grown perhaps an inch or two since she was sixteen, and was still much shorter than the steward, yet for just a moment it was as if she had grown to stand a hundred feet tall.

'A threat to Lord Larsa?'

Mr Tayburn looked a bit pale. Penelo nodded her head and hoped she looked fearsome as she tried not to cry in frustration. Had she been a different sort of young lady, or rather, had she been at home in Rabanastre where she didn't feel like everyone was watching and disapproving of her, she would have given the man a hard kick in the shins right then.

Steward Tayburn licked his lips and stared into Penelo's unwavering eyes. For a handful of seconds she did not breathe, willing the man to believe her, for she was speaking the absolute truth.

'The Emperor is in conference with Magister Zaagabaath in the East Wing study...miss?'

Penelo had already pivoted on her bare feet and started running back the way she came, flying past the gaggles of bored, spoilt Archadian on-lookers as she raced down the gallery.

The east wing study was in the east wing (unsurprisingly) and Penelo was currently in the west wing. She had a great many long galleries to run through until she reached her destination and she thought it was likely someone would try and stop her from reaching Larsa when she finally got there.

As it happened she was in such a hurry that she did not even see the woman coming up a flight of stairs from the servants' floor, over-burdened with a full hamper of clean linens until she had barrelled into her.

Penelo's legs scythed out from under her as she collided with the woman who stepped up from the stairway into the passageway right in front of Penelo. The woman fell down onto her rump with a startled _Oh! _of surprise and Penelo flew over her and performed a head roll across the stone passageway before coming to a crumpled stop a foot or so further up the passageway.

'Gracious me, miss, beggin' yer pardon!'

The servant was a sturdy built woman in her late twenties with dark hair that fell in lank tendrils over her eyes from under a white hood and had a pointed chinned face, was familiar to Penelo.

'Miss Penelo, well I never, what are yer in such a hurry for me lady?'

The servant, whose name was Gerty (short for Gertrude) helped a slightly dazed Penelo to her feet and handed back to her the wax sealed communiqué Penelo had dropped during her tumble.

Penelo did not think she could have been more relieved to see the woman before her.

Gerty, who was a chamber maid in the guest chambers where Penelo was staying, had been unfailing nice to Penelo since her stay began. In return Penelo (when she had nothing else to do, which was quite often as envoys didn't seem to do much) helped Gerty tidy the guestrooms and mop the corridors.

'Gerty I have to get to Larsa in the east wing, something awful has happened.' She admitted in a rush. The other woman's dark eyes seemed to gleam with some secret emotion for a moment then she just nodded briskly.

'Aight, me lady. If'n you be so kind as t'help me pick up these linens I'll show you the quick way to get to the east wing, what yer say?'

'Thank you.' Penelo clasped her hands together in relief, her knees almost weak from the mention of a 'quick way' to get to Larsa that might mean she could avoid the prying, mean eyes of the Archadians.

She and Gerty made quick work of the linens, which Gerty then stuffed, hurriedly, into a linen cupboard in the corridor.

'I'll take yer through the servant passages, it's quicker.'

'Thank you.'

Penelo said again following Gerty down the stone steps to the servants' floor and through a door that led to a rickety, slightly unsafe, looking elevator. Gerty dragged the steel trellis door of the elevator closed and pressed a button.

'Mos' o' them lords and ladies would sooner walk miles all about the galleries jus' t'be seen, going nowhere all day long, but us servants got t'be everywhere at once, don't we, so we 'ave to move fast like. No time for dallying about all pretty like.'

Gerty told her with a twinkle in her dark, secretive eyes, as they rode the shuddering elevator upwards.

Eventually they reached their floor and Gerty pulled open the door and led her to another unmarked heavy wood door but stopped before she opened it.

'Where 'bouts in the east wing yer need t'be?'

'The study.' Penelo said immediately, very aware of the slightly crumpled letter she held clasped in her hands.

'Ah, well in that case, we go this way.'

Gerty led the way further down the dark, narrow, stone walled passage that was so tight Penelo's shoulders almost brushed the sides of each wall (Vaan, who was broad even though he was not tall, would have been wedged and trapped in the small space.)

''Ere we are me lady, this door leads t'the study.' Gerty nodded her head to the door right in front of them at the end of the very narrow passageway.

Penelo squeezed past the other woman and smiled fleetingly in gratitude, 'Thank you, again.' She added.

Gerty gave her a crooked toothed smile, that was somehow much nicer than any of the razor toothed and insincere smiles Penelo saw on the faces of the Archadian gentry.

'Yer welcome, miss.'

Gerty then turned swiftly away and slipped with all the nimble ease of a rat under a skirting board back down the unlit passageway towards the elevator. Penelo turned the handle she could not see but could feel on the door and pushed the heavy, untreated and unvarnished door open.

'...oh!'

Penelo could only gape in shock when she stumbled out of the door and into the bright crystallight of the study.

She had not realised that the door would lead directly into Larsa's private study and was suddenly tongue-tied with embarrassment as she stumbled into the centre of the room and found herself face to face with a very surprised Larsa and Magister Zaagabaath.

'Penelo how...?' Larsa blinked then looked beyond her to the servants' door as it swung closed on creaking hinges. 'What are you doing coming in through the servants' door?'

For a moment all Penelo could do was look at Larsa. He was wearing a simple pair of dark trousers, with subtle silver thread running down the sides of the outer leg and a black silk shirt underneath a suede black velvet jacket with silver buttons that twinkled like stars.

Penelo thought he looked magnificent with his pale skin and raven hair and his brilliant blue eyes. He looked exactly like the summer sky at night would look if it was a man, adored with silver stars and rich and smooth as velvet, and not a sky. Already her thoughts were unravelling as she shuffled her bare feet and twisted her hands together nervously.

The letter caught her eye as she looked down on her twisted hands, 'Larsa, it's Ashe, something horrible has happened!'

Larsa was across the thick, almost bouncy, white carpeting in an instant and took both her hands, his blue eyes large and intense. 'What is it? Penelo you're shaking. What has happened?'

'Gods Larsa, how could anyone want to hurt a baby; to hurt a pregnant woman? Why would the Kiltia want to hurt Ashe?'

Her words came out in a jumble, a garbled response to her shock and her outage at the news of what had happened, just hours ago, to her Queen. The thought of anyone hurting Ashe and her child made Penelo sick. It made her angry enough that Larsa was right, she was shaking a little.

Penelo loved Ashe with a fierce devotion, not just because she was Dalmascan and proud of it, but because Ashe had always been generous to Penelo. Maybe Penelo had deserved something, some reward and recognition, for fighting on Bahamut and all the rest of it, but Ashe had still given Penelo a noble title and a sizable income (for life if Penelo wished it) that was well beyond anything Penelo had ever dreamed of possessing.

She was startled from her thoughts when Larsa's cool, long fingered hands cupped her face and tilted her chin up so he could look into her eyes.

'Penelo, come sit down. Zaagabaath please pour Penelo some water, yes, that's right Penelo, sit here and tell me exactly what has happened.'

Penelo accepted the glass of water Zaagabaath politely offered her with a weak smile, for Penelo had been raised to always be polite.

In a rush she told Larsa about the message that had come through on the Veccara communication relay while Vaan had been showing Penelo some of the new upgrades to his ship.

The message had been from Lieutenant Creeta, Vaan's second in command in the Queen's Guard, and Creeta had been terribly upset. He had told them that a man claiming to be from the Kiltia had attacked Ashe in the palace gardens the night before and threatened the life of the baby.

Penelo had thought she would die of heart ache for Ashe and had been enormously relieved to find out that although injured Ashe was alive and the baby was unharmed. However the news had only gotten worse as Creeta had continued.

'Ashe ordered that all lay-Kiltia be brought in for questioning and the Rabanastran Kiltia from the cathedral as well.' Penelo told Larsa whose lips were bloodless and pursed into a taut, thin line. Penelo was very aware of his hands squeezing hers as they rested in her lap.

'I can understand why Ashe would take such a step.'

Larsa said softly, his voice almost normal sounding and only the fierce grip he had on her hands told her that he was upset by the news.

'But I gather from your eyes, that speak plainly to me, that something worse still happened when the order was followed through.'

Penelo nodded mutely and tried to steady her breathing and not act like some silly, emotional girl. But it was hard, very hard, even to say out loud what Creeta had told her.

'Creeta said that the man who tried to kill Ashe had brought others with him. When the guardsmen went to speak with the High Kiltias at the Cathedral they were shot at by the...' Penelo hesitated trying to find a word for the evil men in the robes of the Kiltia who had fired upon the guard and done something much worse soon after, '...the _renegade_ Kiltia had captured the Cathedral and held the High Cleric and the loyal Rabanstran Kiltia hostage.'

Penelo sucked in a deep breath of air, imagining the horrible scene outside the Cathedral, the gunfire and the clash of swords, in so beautiful and sacred a place.

'They said they would kill the hostages and burn down the cathedral if Ashe didn't surrender her life to them. They called her a false idol and a heretic and claimed that the Kiltias of Rabanastre were corrupted by the false power of mortality.'

Penelo shook her head, angrily, 'Larsa what does that even mean? Who are these people, because they don't act like any Kiltias I've met.'

Larsa turned away from her and looked to Zaagabaath who rubbed his eyes tiredly and turned his cool, but not unkind, eyes on Penelo.

'There is time enough for explanations and conjecture later, but first, we are to assume that the Lady Ashe was not so foolish as to attempt to negotiate with these desperate, zealous fools?' Zaagabaath asked.

Penelo shook her head, fighting hot angry tears. 'They blew it up, Larsa, they blew up the Cathedral and killed themselves and the High Cleric. The ruins are still smouldering now. They destroyed our cathedral. Even the Imperial Army left our Cathedral alone.'

To her surprise Larsa surged to his feet and immediately began to pace. 'I must do something.' He hissed almost to himself

'First Al-Cid, my friend and ally, who I was powerless to help and now Ashe; how can I claim to be Emperor with all this power at my disposal and yet still be unable to help my friends?'

Larsa stopped by his desk and sank into his leather chair, abruptly, shockingly, he slammed his fist down hard on the scrolled top of the mahogany desk, face contorted with an anguished frustration Penelo had never seen before.

Penelo turned startled eyes to Zaagabaath who cleared his throat awkwardly, 'My Lord, the senate has made it very clear that...'

Larsa's head snapped up and his blue eyes seemed uncannily bright and fiercely intense as he silenced the much older man with one blazing look, 'Yes! Yes, I know what the Senate said.'

Larsa almost shouted and Penelo jumped as she sat terribly still on the edge of the soft, furred lined sofa.

She had never seen Larsa angry, as much as it shocked her, she realised that she was almost afraid of him as he pushed furiously to his feet and paced the room like a caged Couerl.

'The same Senators who I re-instated and who care more for their own profit than their people, make me choose between my people's interests and my friends, so be it. I know that Archades cannot, should not, and will not, go to war against Mishman Margrace, to do so would be disastrous. Have I made any signs of doing so? No, I have done as the senate demands and abandoned my friend. But I will not sit idle as the peace of Ivalice is destroyed.'

'My Lord, I understand, believe me after this grave news I agree with you, but unless the Lady Ashe requests aid...'

'She has.' Penelo spoke up before she even realised she intended to do so.

She jumped up from the sofa, having remembered the letter, (delivered discreetly by a Dalmascan merchant into her hands earlier this very day). Penelo went over to Larsa and delicately rested one hand on his shoulder, not at all sure he would not shake her off in his anger, as she offered him the secret letter.

'This letter came; it is from Ashe herself and was sent in secret. I had to be the one to give it to you as she doesn't want anyone else to know what's in it.'

Larsa frowned, more curious than angry now, and opened up the letter, allowing Penelo to read it as he did.

'Oh no!' Penelo raised her hands to her mouth as she read the clipped toned, brief message written in Ashe's neat, careful, almost spiky hand.

_Lord Larsa,_

_I trust Penelo has told you of the calamity that has befallen Rabanastre and very nearly my own self. I assure you that I am well and so too is my baby. However there is a matter that I request your help in as I can ask no one else, nor spare any in Rabanastre I might trust with this task. _

_Foolishly, but with the best of intentions that I'm sure you will understand, I sent Balthier, in secret, to Rozzaria to assist Al-Cid against his brother. It has been some six weeks without word and I cannot admit to where my husband is to my people even as they question why he is not in Rabanastre when my life and that of his unborn child's is in danger._

_I have no one to ask, no one with the resources to discover Balthier's whereabouts, save perhaps yourself. I ask you if you can find out anything about the situation in Rozzaria. If I know Al-Cid lives then I know Balthier does also. I need to know my husband is alive. I must know that he lives, for I fear his blood is on my hands._

_Yours, Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca. _

Penelo looked up at Larsa who had read the letter out loud for the benefit of Zaagabaath, whose grave weathered face grew even more grave with every word. Penelo clasped her hands together and twisted her twinned fingers anxiously.

Larsa stared at the letter blankly for a few moments, clearly thinking furiously. 'It is not so easy. Mishman's agents have sealed up the ports and aerodromes, it is almost impossible to gain valuable, reliable intelligence from Rozzaria. The only news that comes through comes from those lucky enough to have fled Rozzaria and their number dwindles daily.'

Larsa walked dejectedly towards his desk and laid the letter down neatly onto the desk top, his actions almost dream-like and distracted.

'Zaagabaath, I would be alone with the Lady Penelo a moment, if you please.' Larsa said in a quiet voice.

Zaagabaath looked a bit startled and glanced thoughtfully at Penelo before bowing politely, clicking his heels together in military fashion and leaving the office through the main door.

As soon as the door to the study was closed behind him, Larsa turned and swiftly went to Penelo, taking up her hands in his.

'Penelo I cannot begin to imagine what you must be feeling. I thank you for staying in Archades long enough to pass on this message. I know you must be eager to return to your home.'

Penelo opened her mouth, but could not think of what to say. It was true that when she had first heard what had happened she had wanted desperately to fly back on the Veccara to Rabanastre to be with Ashe, but now?

Now she realised she didn't want to leave, especially not when Larsa seemed so sad and lost and overwhelmed by everything and even still was trying to be kind to her.

'I haven't been asked to go back.' Penelo admitted. She thought that if Ashe had need of her then she would know about it soon enough. Ashe was very good at giving orders.

Larsa blinked, clearly surprised, 'Well, I had thought that...' He trailed off before taking another approach.

'Don't you want to go back home to Rabanastre?' He asked almost timidly.

Penelo could not help but notice how snugly her hands fit in the cradle of his own.

Her thoughts drifting back to when he had plucked her from danger in Bhujerba five years ago and promised her that he would personally sort out all the trouble the Imperial forces were causing in Rabanastre. He had taken her hands then, kneeling before her as if _she_ was royalty.

She remembered how his words, the honesty in them, had affected her. It wasn't that she had believed him exactly. She didn't think he was lying, but she knew that nothing would change for the better in Dalmasca until the Empire left for good, but it was the fact that he wanted to try that made all the difference.

It was the first time she had believed that an Archadian was capable of goodness.

Penelo wriggled her hands out of the cradle of his own so that she could twin her fingers with his. 'I'll go home if I'm needed and if Ashe tells me too, but I thought if she doesn't that I would stay here. I want to help you too, Larsa.'

She looked honestly into his bright, deep blue eyes, and to her amazement watched his own gaze skitter away and a faint blush rise to his cheeks; almost in embarrassment Larsa pulled his hands gently from hers, turning away.

'Penelo, I cannot claim that your words do not please me, greatly, but I cannot expect you to stay here when your sovereign and your country are in such peril. It would not be right.'

Penelo could not help the slight stab of hurt she felt at this seeming rejection of her help. Why would he not want her to help when he seemed so angry and frustrated? Did he think she could not help him?

'But I care about you too Larsa. I care about you as much as I do about Ashe and maybe by helping you, I can help Dalmasca.' She added thoughtfully.

Larsa had turned back to face her when she said that she cared for him as much as she did Ashe, an expression of pure happiness on his face for a second before he frowned thoughtfully.

'Help me and Dalmasca?' He said softly, dark brows dipping over his beautiful eyes.

Again he stepped quickly over to her and took up her hands. She had never known him to be so..._touchy-feely_...for lack of a better word, and she could not pretend she did not have butterflies in her stomach every time he held her hands.

His earnest blue eyes burned into hers, 'You are truly willing to stay here in Archades? For I swear to you Penelo if you wish to return to Rabanastre I will see that my private airship is prepared to take you back tonight.'

Penelo shook her head firmly, 'Ashe hasn't said anything and it was she that sent me here in the first place, maybe she wants me to stay here with you? Anyway, like I said Larsa, I want to help you.'

To her amazement, and not a little delight, Larsa cupped her cheek with one of his hands and smiled, really smiled, at her. The smile reached his dark blue eyes and glittered in their depths like a cherished gift, like something much more important than anything she could offer.

'Thank you, Penelo, I am forever grateful for your friendship.'

He told her sounding as if he truly meant it, though Penelo knew her friendship could not mean so much to someone as important as he was. After all she wasn't a powerful queen or empress who could really do anything to help Larsa.

Penelo did not know what to say in response to his kindness, and, with the warmth of Larsa's hand seeping into her skin, his thumb lightly stroking her cheek and sending warm tingles running down her body until she felt liquid and strange, Penelo did not know quite what to do or what to say.

'I'm really not that special. I just want to help if I can.' She finally whispered.

Larsa smiled, almost sadly, and shook his head. Penelo could not help but lean her cheek into the warmth of his hand, to savour his touch. 'You are special Penelo. You are special because you are good and kind and honest. You are everything most of Archades is not.'

Secretly Penelo whole heartedly agreed with him. She had spent many hours wondering why the ladies and gentleman of the court seemed to take so much pleasure in belittling her and anybody not like them. However Penelo felt for Larsa who must suffer for his people's meanness and so tried to defend his people.

'No, really they are not so very bad...' She began in defence of the people who had been consistently mean to her since her first visit to the Archadian capital as official envoy. Larsa did not let her finish however.

Soft as a moth's wings on a soft, balmy, summer night breeze, he placed a kiss on her lips that was sweet as could be. Penelo was no child she had been kissed before, and with tongues, but never like this.

Underneath the delicacy, there was fire. She could feel it. What's more she wanted to feel it, she felt as if it could consume her and she would enjoy every moment of it.

The feeling of Larsa's one hand resting, feather light on her waist and his other hand cupping her cheek held her in a happy place that was on the very edge of a fiery passion that was just beneath the surface, waiting for a spark to ignite it.

Penelo parted her lips in silent invitation, hoping to encourage that flame between them. Larsa pulled away. Immediately turning his downturned eyes from hers and walking swiftly to his desk.

'Forgive me, Penelo, that was inexcusably rude of me.'

Larsa sat at his desk and stared intently down at the ruddy surface, deliberately not looking at her.

'Larsa?' Penelo could hear her heart thundering in her chest like a trapped bird, a wave of disappointment, frustration, and confusion threatened to drown her.

Larsa picked up a sheath of papers and began noisily shuffling them. 'It is late and you have had a trying day. I will see you tomorrow for tea in the sky gardens; we will talk more on what is to be done about Ashe and Al-Cid then.'

He did not look up at her and it was obviously a dismissal. Feeling angry Penelo left through the servants' door (because that was how she came in) without saying goodnight.

Almost as soon as the door closed Penelo wanted to turn about and go back into the study as it was even darker in the tight, small passageway now than it had been when Gerty took her to the door.

Squaring her shoulders Penelo refused to allow herself to be frightened by a small, dark, humid space when she had faced down evil Magisters' and Vayne Solidor.

Penelo had taken only a handful of steps when a hand clapped around her mouth and another around her waist and she became aware of two other bodies in the space with her, just in front of the elevator.

One of the figures opened the sliding door of the elevator while the other, the one holding her, pushed her forwards into the elevator. Both people stepped into the elevator with her and it rocked into motion.

One of the figures lit an oil lamp as Penelo started the incantation for an immobilising spell to incapacitate her would-be attackers. The words of the spell fell from her thoughts as the murky yellow light of the lamp brought the two strangers faces into sharp focus.

Jules the Streetear leered at her and winked as he let go of her and stepped out of the reach of her fists or feet.

'A'ight, _Lady _Penelo, up late with our beloved Emperor I see.'

Penelo ignored him however and instead stared in mute shock at Gerty who stood holding the oil lamp and looking daggers at Jules.

'Ignore me brother, me lady, 'e's an ass, but e's harmless really.'

'Your _brother_?' Penelo exclaimed, looking from one dark, sharp featured, keen-eyed face to the other and seeing the similarities. She wondered vaguely if Larsa knew who Gerty's brother was.

'Aye, fer me sins.' Gerty nodded regretfully. Jules scoffed and rolled his eyes.

Penelo held herself lightly, ready to fight if she had to, as the elevator continued its unsteady, jolting journey down two floors to the cellars.

'What do you want?' She demanded tilting her chin up and curling her hands into fists.

'Ooo, saucy little minx ain't yer?' Jules grinned, 'Not like yer used to be when yer was following me mate Balthier an' his queen about the place.'

Before Penelo could say anything Gerty elbowed her brother in the stomach, hard.

'Ignore him.' She said shortly, glaring at him. 'What we want is the same thing yer want, miss. We want t'make sure them bloody Kiltia don't get t' Larsa. So we're gonna help you, help Larsa.'

Penelo widened her eyes as she realised that Gerty and Jules had been listening to the whole conversation between herself and Larsa and Zaagabaath.

Gerty seemed to understand Penelo's thoughts because she smiled slightly, 'Don't worry none; we're friends of the Lady Ashe too, it suits us to 'ave Ashe in Dalmasca with Balthier and Al-Cid in Rozzaria too. That's why we is gonna help yer, miss, because yer are gonna help us.'

Penelo could barely take it all in, she frowned. 'But who are you? What do you really want?'

Jules grinned slyly at her and picked at his teeth with his fingers.

'We're like yer are _Lady _Penelo. Or least ways the way yer were, back when yer was just some poor little bint living in a slum. We're the real _people of Ivalice _that them high muckity-mucks talk so much about when they want to appear like they cares for us poor folk.'

Jules' lip curled in contempt and he spat through the railings of the elevator cage in disgust.

Penelo did not know what to say and so turned soundlessly to Gerty. Gerty nodded her head and explained.

'We're goin' t'help yer become Empress, miss. A blind man's can see that his Lordship loves yer, but that bloody senate is never goin t'let him marry some poor foreign gel, even if she did save all bloody Ivalice from mad Vayne. So's we goin' t'help yer with yer Kiltia troubles an' yer are goin t'help us get rid of the senators.'

Penelo could only gape at the two streetear siblings, astounded. Jules beamed at her and cracked his knuckles.

'Hey-up, _Empress_, Archades is goin' t'have its self a popular revolution an' yer are goin' t'be leading the charge.'

He grinned. Penelo stared. The elevator came to a stop with a sudden, jarring jolt.

Gerty stumbled and the oil lamp went out, plunging the three of them into darkness. Somehow this seemed appropriate to Penelo as the elevator started up again with a groan of machinery and rocketed down into the darkness below.


	8. Chapter 8

**Rabanastre; amid the rubble**

The Dalmascan sun, bright, blazing and merciless, beat down upon the uneven mounds, valleys and hillocks of ash, cracked marble and broken pillars that stood on the site of the once majestic Rabanastran cathedral.

Ashe had been married here; twice. Her father and her mother had been married here. She and all her brothers had been blessed and experienced their birthing celebration here.

Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca reached out a hand to sift through the gritty, rocky skein of ash and rubble that was all that remained of the Rabanastran Cathedral that had stood on this spot for five hundred years.

'Lady Ashe, niece, you must get up.'

Her uncle Halim cast a long shadow over her as Ashe continued to kneel in the grey dust, tiny pieces of stone, shattered glass and mosaic tile, cutting into her bare knees.

Halim attempted to raise her to her feet but Ashe remained dead weight in his arms, and frail from age and the lingering affects of the poison that had nearly killed him some two years before, Halim could not force her to her feet.

'Please child you must get up. This is too public a place.'

Halim's long cloak brushed against her back and forearm as he stepped close to her attempting to shield her from the curious, silent gazes of the gathered crowds of Rabanastran's who had come to look and grieve over the loss of their cathedral.

Ashe knew she had a duty to her people; she had failed to protect Rabanastre from her enemies and good people had died because of it. To make amends Ashe knew she had to stand as a pillar of strength for her subjects. She should lead by example, but she could not.

In her cupped palms she held a sandy mess of sand, ash and tiny, pink and green splinters of tiling. She let the mixture fall through the cracks in her fingers and spill across her skirts before joining the sea of burned and broken ruin underneath her.

She could not raise her head, nor find the strength to move. She looked down at her rounded, full stomach and wondered where her child would be blessed, on which altar would her baby receive his or her blessing? Or did Faram spit upon her child?

Her uncle rested his hand on her shoulder, a heavy warm weight that merely added to her burdens. Her uncle had his own concerns, namely over-seeing the election of a predecessor now that his own son Joaquin was confined in a specially designed hospital for the deranged and dangerous. He could not afford to waste time here, taking care of her.

Slowly Halim bent down on arthritic knees, laying his cane on the rubble strewn ground and stroked a large, warm hand over her hair.

'Courage now, child, bricks and mortar are replaceable, you are not. Rabanastre has suffered a blow, but not so much as would have been had the people lost their queen.'

Slowly, lethargically, Ashe turned her head to face her uncle. The bright, uncaring sunlight dazzling her; she peered myopically at her uncle, before letting her heavy head drop down again to gaze blindly at the dust and ruin all around her.

Shattered white marble pillars rose from the desert of ash and brick dust like the broken ends of bones, the grey silt, a sea of ash, was littered with twinkling sparks of pink, green and amethyst and amber mosaic tiles, like jewels in the sunlight.

Ashe pressed her palms to her belly and squeezed her eyes closed on bitter, scolding tears. She did not know what to do. She did not know how to fight this new menace and she barely had the strength to try.

Why, why did this have to happen? Had she not suffered enough? Had Dalmasca not known enough horror, pain and strife? What god would demand such agonies as their due? How was she supposed to move forward when her enemy was her own god?

'……I'm sorry…' She whispered choking on a half strangled sob and burying her head in her uncle's shoulder like a weak and immature child.

Her uncle stroked her back and tried to remind her, in a gentle murmur of flowing Bhujerban against her hair, that she must be strong and stand proud as a queen. That she bore no blame for what had happened.

She could not believe him. She felt empty, worn and old before her time. She feared for her baby, trapped inside her, when she felt as if she drowned in acidic bitterness. The sun beat down on her back harsh, unforgiving and cold.

The sound of voices raised in a ragged, sombre cheer finally drew her head up from her uncle's shoulder and she turned dazedly towards the crowd, some two hundred strong, of Rabanastran's who stood behind the protective barriers erected to protect people from the bombsite.

'……long live the queen...long live the lady Ashe.'

Ashe could barely comprehend the cries that rose, unsteadily but proudly, in one awkward, ill-timed voice from the crowd of people.

Bangaa and Seeq and Hume and Moogle, Ashe could even make out the long, elegant ears of a handful of Viera, her citizens breached the safety barriers and started clambering over the rubble.

Ashe let her uncle pull her to her feet and she wiped childishly at her tear slicked face with soot and ash covered hands. To her mute amazement she saw that the people had shovels and wheel barrels and that they began working in disorganised but enthusiastic fashion to sift through the rubble clearing space.

A Hume man in simple clothing tentatively approached, ducking his head and bobbing up and down in an awkward, almost comical show of deference as he came closer.

She could only watch as the man stopped a few feet from her position and looked anxiously from her face to her uncle's. Halim nodded to the man and addressed him in Ashe's stead.

'Speak sir, what is it you and your compatriots do here?'

'Well, me and some of the boys have been working on the desert road crews and we had the stuff so we thought we'd make a start clearing up for the rebuilding, your grace.'

The man turned earnest eyes on Ashe and smiled tremulously at her, 'We all want to help, your majesty. Clan Centurio is calling in the members from all over Ivalice to come back and help with the work and there's a crew coming down from Nalbina, and the boys at the Sandsea will be here soon.'

As the man babbled on Ashe watched as Rabanastran's great and small, children and the stooped and elderly alike, started to spill out onto the grounds of the ruined cathedral.

The sounds of the Dalmascan national anthem being sung very poorly amid laughter and good natured orders and commands, filtered over the hot, still, morning air to Ashe's ears.

She could not stop the tears that spilled down her cheeks and hated herself for showing such weakness. She reached out and squeezed the workman's hands in hers and met his eyes.

'What is your name?'

The man blushed a dusky red to the roots of his sandy hair and shuffled his feet awkwardly.

'Yaegar, your majesty.' He mumbled.

Ashe nodded her head, 'Thank you, Yaegar. Please let everyone know that they are welcome to come into the palace for refreshments and a place to rest. I will see that the kitchens are open to you all.'

'You are very gracious your majesty, I've never been in the palace before.' Yaegar admitted bashfully, before hurrying off to let his small group of friends know.

Ashe smiled sadly as she watched Yaegar impart the news before he and his friends rushed off to let the other teams of rubble clearers know. She turned swiftly to her uncle and clenched his hand.

'I can't stay here, I feel sick.' She whispered, a roiling pit of corrosive bile burning a hole inside her.

She was sickened by her own helplessness. Shamed by the strength and courage of her people and she could not watch her subjects pick through the debris of her mistakes.

As her uncle took her elbow and guided her awkwardly (due to his bad leg and the unsettled, broken ground) over and around the piles of rubble people lifted their heads and swiftly dropped into bows as she passed.

'Lady Ashe.' Some whispered as if _she_ was some being deserving of reverence.

'Your Majesty, be praised.'

'Faram preserve your majesty.'

'Your Highness, how is the little one? Are you well?'

Ashe could do no more than offer her hand to one or two of the people for a brief moment here and there as she fought tears and sickness.

She could not do this. She could face their adoration, their undeserved praise when she had failed to bring them the peace and prosperity she had promised them repeatedly since attaining her throne.

Upon reaching her palace and its cool, quiet palm laden lower floors, she managed to stutter a command to one of her attendants to see that food and drink and shelter was made available for the clean up crews at the cathedral site, before hurrying up the winding staircase to her private chambers.

'Lady Ashe, your councillors wish word with you.'

Her Uncle slipped politely into her bed chamber and shut the door firmly behind him. Ashe lay on her bed staring up at the embroidered tester, hands clasping her stomach. She did not respond.

It had been seven days since that terrible night when her world had teetered on the brink of destruction and the night sky had been painted orange with the cathedral blaze that might, had the wind direction not thankfully changed, have engulfed all Rabanastre in a towering inferno.

Some five and half days since Penelo had handed, on Ashe's behalf, to Larsa her secret missive begging news on Rozzaria. Larsa had since publicly promised financial aid in the rebuilding of the cathedral and privately promised to do what he could regards 'the other matter of utmost importance to us both.'

It was a day (no, less than that, something more like fourteen hours) since news of Balthier _did_ reach her, but not from Larsa. Instead the news brought confirmation of her worst fears. The news came from the lips of her enemy, delighting in her devestation.

Less than twenty four hours ago the envoy from Rozzaria, a man loyal to Mishman Margrace, had demanded a private audience with herself. Ashe could see the man's smooth chinned, triumphantly smug face clearly in her mind's eye even now, hours later.

The man had spoken in Rozzarian, revelling in every moment of her distress, though she had shown him none, as she had stepped down from her throne to observe the twisted piece of metal, painted a familiar blue and yellow with pale orange gilding that had been presented to her like a long lost treasure.

It was a piece from an airship's lesser wing. Not just any airship, even Ashe with her inexpert eye, could recognise the distinct design and patterning still visible on the piece of metal, twisted and scarred, that sat heavy and silent as an accusation from the dead, upon her throne room floor.

It was a piece of the Strahl; a fragment of the Strahl's wing, torn off and left to lose its lustre and beauty like the wings of a fallen butterfly.

'You recognise it, your highness?' The envoy, a man called Ahmen, had sneered; contempt and cruel mockery scarce hidden behind the thin, brittle veneer of deference.

'It appears to be an airship wing, or a piece thereof, but I confess aeronautical design is not a speciality of mine, sir.' She had responded calmly, even as her heart hammered.

Ahmen had smiled coldly, white teeth sharp and vicious in his narrow face, 'Then maybe these salvaged parts will help your powers of recognition, your Highness.'

Waiting in the wings, like players in a macabre and cruel farce, members of Ahmen's entourage brought forward more pieces of the airship. Some were large enough that they took two men to carry and others were almost small enough to fit in the palm of the men's hands.

There were further pieces of the outer metal skin of the Strahl, her unique paintwork unmistakable. There were bits of wiring from the control consoles, a section of an engine.

The evidence was damning, all these pieces clearly came from the same craft, even Ashe's untrained eye could see that and the expression of silent, seething horror and anguish on Vaan's pale face (her captain playing his part well as silent sentry) merely confirmed her monstrous suspicions.

'Where did you come by these….parts?' She had demanded of Ahmen bloodlessly.

'The faithful soldiers of my Emperor found a ship, hidden within the dunes and caves of the Mikanel desert. Imagine the surprise we experienced when those of us who have travelled to Dalmasca recognised the craft as the fated Strahl, the armistice ship on which war was ceased with Archadia.'

The man smiled hugely, heartlessly, relishing every moment of his self-scripted performance.

'The ship that belongs, forgive me, _belonged _to your own husband, the master Balthier Bunansa. Who, unless I am mistaken, is strangely absent, despite the upheavals you have experienced of late.'

Another smile, another dark eyed challenge, 'My Emperor has asked that I pass on his most sincere pleasure at the news that you survived the attempt upon your life, your Highness. He looks forward to welcoming you to the new Rozzaria he is building with his sainted wife the Empress Hepzibah.'

Ashe had gritted her teeth and smiled, 'You and your Emperor are too kind, but I fear you are mistaken, neither my husband nor his ship have been in Rozzaria, this…..wreckage must belong to some other vessel.'

The man had then deigned to laugh at her, a soft, insidious chuckle. His eyes were hard and patronising.

'Now, now your Highness. My Emperor is moved to lenience despite your treachery, revealed by the presence of your husband in our lands without invitation, as you have suffered enough without bringing war once more upon your people, but do not think us fools.'

'Sir, I have no idea….' Ashe had begun hotly only to be cut off by Ahmen, as he advanced on her, taking a step up the dais to her throne, and forcing her to climb the dais to keep away from him.

'Your husband is dead.' Ahmen had hissed viciously gloating and backing her down in her own palace, her own throne room.

'Your attempts to aid the traitor Al-Cid come to naught. Desist in your foolish opposition to my Emperor and he will beseech Faram to spare you and your kingdom the holy wrath that is to befall all Ivalice.'

Ashe had refused to back up a further step, as she had feared toppling into her throne, and stood her ground. She had stared Ahmen coldly straight in the eye.

'Show me a body and I will consider your Emperor's words and meaningless threats worthy of my time, sir. Until then I command you and your men to leave Dalmasca without delay. You are unwelcome in my country.'

Her voice did not shake, nor her hands. She had stood proud and faced the man and his awful insinuations, his threats of war and vengeance, without a quiver, even as inside her head she had begun screaming.

A screaming that still echoed in her mind now, hours after the first inkling that Balthier may be dead had reached her ears, deafening her to all else.

Back then Ahmen had opened his mouth on a sneering rebuttal but Ashe had raised one hand imperiously and called to Vaan. Her captain was close on Ahmen's heels, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword and his usually faultless blue eyes holding a fine, heated rage.

'Captain Vaan, see that Sir Ahmen and his men are given suitable escort out of Dalmascan territory immediately.'

Behind Ahmen's back Vaan had grinned with uncharacteristic savagery and unsheathed his sword. A number of Ahmen's men had reached for their swords and Vaan had laughed.

'You really want to try it, huh? You want to take on the sword that sliced up Vayne Solidor?'

Vaan had brandished his sword with theatrical menace; Ashe had quietly drew the dagger from her hip while Ahmen and his men were distracted.

'And this dagger dispatched your Emperor's chosen assassin.' She had stated calmly, staring Ahmen down.

'Leave now and you keep your miserable lives, stay and I will see you all hanged from the wreckage of the cathedral.'

Ahmen and his men had left, jeered at and pelted with stones by the people of Rabanastre, rumour having been seemingly generated from thin air that Rozzaria had tried to kill their queen.

Now, in the aftermath, Ashe could only lie in her bed, staring at nothing and trapped by the horror of recent memory repeating itself behind her eyes, blinding her to reality.

Her will was all but broken, her body and mind fatigued by the constant violence that had dogged her adult life. Fear and guilt ate at her soul and she could not rise nor stir.

The pieces of the Strahl had been taken to the aerodrome, and Ashe knew that gossip now had it that Balthier was either a captive or a victim of Rozzaria. Word had reached her early this morning that the Nalbinese council had rounded up and cast out all Kiltias from the city and riots threatened to erupt in the name of her Highness Ashelia and the master Balthier.

Chaos and despair held Ashe captive and chained in fear as her kingdom succumbed to poisonous panic.

What life was this to force an innocent child to live? In but a few short months her baby would be born and Ashe feared that all Dalmasca would have long fallen to wrack and ruin before that day.

'….I'm sorry.' She whispered, to her baby and to the baby's father.

The faint and stubborn belief that he yet lived (surely Mishman would have presented her with Balthier's lifeless corpse had he been in possession of such, and not merely pieces of his beloved airship) faded by the minute.

Ignoring her uncle's entreaties Ashe rolled over heavily on her side, still clasping her hands against her rounded stomach. She turned her back on the outside world and longed for sleep; for peace and quiet even as she knew that all that waited for her in slumber were nightmares and guilt.

Therefore she wilfully did not hear the sound of her uncle slipping, defeated, out of her chamber nor did she hear, or rather she did not heed nor comprehend, the strange commotion that briefly erupted somewhere else in the palace.

She heard, some time much later, Vaan's loud, exuberant voice; heard him laughing, but as there was precious little cause for laughter she dismissed the sound as a figment of her imagination.

Ashe slept like a stone in her artificially darkened room. The thick curtains drawn against the blazing sun, the chamber hot and oppressive in unnatural gloom; she was half in dream when the door to her chamber opened again and the soft sound of booted feet moving towards her bed barely registering in her ears.

Floating somewhere between awake, asleep and delirious with misery Ashe hovered between consciousness and dreams. She heard the soft, muted movements of another body in her chamber; the heavy thump of sturdy travelling boots dropping onto the polished floor of her bedchamber did not stir her.

A breeze wafted her bed curtains as the figure passed close to the side of her bed and moved onwards towards the adjoining bathroom door. Ashe was trying to force open her heavy eyelids when she heard the sluicing rush of water running into her bathtub.

Ashe struggled upward in bed, finally forcing her eyes open, and looked about her hot, close, darkened bed chamber in confusion.

Her instincts, razor sharp but buried almost beyond recognition under the deep, despairing lethargy that had stolen her mind from her, screamed that there was an intruder in her rooms.

Ashe pulled the curtain aside, and gripping the dagger retrieved from under her pillow, moved with the utmost stealth across her bedroom floor towards the door of the bathroom left half ajar.

As she crept up to the bathroom door she noted the trails of gritty sand spilling from the discarded, worn boots lying on the bedroom floor, she spotted the Firestar MkII propped up on her bureau all in one eagle eyed glance.

Reaching the door she flung it open hoping to startle whoever lurked within. A wave of steam and humid, damp, air rushed out of the room from the hot, half filled bathtub. She saw a filthy, tattered, presumably once white, shirt lying crumpled on the yellow tiled floor of her bathroom.

Ashe lifted her eyes from the shirt slowly, heart almost frozen mid beat, as her gaze tracked agonisingly slowly over a pair of bare feet; then to the sand and dust covered bottoms of a worn pair of cloth trousers, which encased long, athletic legs.

She noted the whippet narrow waist, the pale skin of a smooth stomach and the thin trail of golden brown hair that traced upwards from navel to chest, a scattering of fresh bruises and the faint shadow of ribs in a lean torso thinner than she remembered, the puckered scar high on the chest that was not quite two years old, captured her attention for a moment.

She forced her eyes still upwards to dance, skittishly, across the expanse of broad shoulders and then down to forearms reddened from the sun and back to shoulders raw and blistered from the straps of a heavy travelling pack.

Finally she could not hold off any longer and Ashe raised her terrified, desperately hopeful, eyes to look upon the intruder's face.

'Hello, Highness.'

The dagger clattered to the tiled floor, and she narrowly missed impaling her own bare foot. Ashe did not even notice, she watched a sly, humorous smile dance across that charming, but rather sun burned and currently decidedly unshaven, face that she knew every contour of.

'I was about to take a bath, Highness. Care to join me?'

The familiar voice, slightly hoarse from the choking sand of the desert, wrapped around her like a velvet embrace even from feet away.

Ashe closed her eyes tightly and balled her hands into fists. Leading man; a voice whispered in her head. _You forget my part in this story, Princess. I'm the leading man and the leading man never dies. _

'Is this real? I'm I imagining this?'

She demanded angrily glaring at the possible apparition before her. If he was a dream, an illusion of her own desperate mind, she would murder him right here on her bathroom tiles.

'I should think not, Highness. I didn't escape a Rozzarian border blockade and trek through Urutan Yensa territory, risking death from sun stroke and dehydration, to be dismissed as a fallacy.'

The man who she could not quite let herself believe was her husband retorted sharply and crossed the bathroom to turn off the flow of water from the taps.

She watched him kneel by the tub and dip his hand into the water testing the temperature with narrowed eyes. She watched the taut play of muscle and sinew under his fair, sun weathered, but still youthful skin.

Impertinently she stepped forward and poked him, hard, in the back. Her finger met resisting flesh; hard muscle and bone. She watched him turn his head and frown at her slightly, his ear-ring catching the light coming in from the open bathroom window.

'The Strahl. They showed me pieces.'

Ashe knew her voice was rising, anger snapping through her words. She sounded almost accusatory, but she could not let herself believe. She needed this too much and to discover this was some illusion, some form of delusion or desperate dream, would likely destroy her.

She watched him stand up, reach up and clasp her shoulders. His grip was warm and firm and his hands were rough from the sand of the Yensa and calloused from the frequent handling of his rifle. Carefully he squeezed down on her shoulders and shook her very slightly, brown eyes boring into her.

'And I heard that Rabanastre was afire and you were dead at the hands of a kiltias assassin.'

Ashe shook her head and reached up to tentatively wrap her own hands around his wrists. Deceptively slight for a man but strong all the same.

'The fire did not take all the city. The wind changed. I did not die.' She all but whispered. She cared not for what she said.

She let go of his wrists and reached up greedy fingers to rub the coarse covering of sandy beard stubble covering his cheeks, jaw and chin. He didn't pull away but instead carefully encircled her waist in his hands.

'The Rozzarian's held all the aerodromes. They guarded the skies. We needed a distraction to make good our escape. So Fran and I performed some minor adjustments to the Strahl and left the debris to be discovered by our dear friend Mishman.'

He told her in the same, soft, inflectionless whisper that Ashe had used. His hands shifted from her waist to her stomach; carefully, delicately, tracing the rounded curve of her bulging belly.

'Al-Cid?' She whispered, but in truth she did not care. However her ally had been important enough to her to risk her husband's life for, so she would not dishonour his efforts by failing to ask.

She watched his expression sour slightly and that proud, profoundly arrogant, scowl take up residence upon his sharp featured face. When he tossed his head slightly and curled his lip, as he did then, he reminded her, as he always did, of one of the old Nabradian war horses. It made her smile.

Through the window a shaft of afternoon sun glided into the room to caress her skin, warm and welcome, where once it had burned and blinded her.

'Insultingly healthy and alive, though that is no thanks to him; that man is over fond of foolhardy ideals, Highness.' The man she was beginning to believe was real, answered her marvellously imperious and dismissive. Ashe laughed in sheer joy to hear that infuriating tone of voice.

'There is much to discuss. I must know everything.' She told him intently as he pulled away from her and turned back to his bath.

'All in due time Highness. First I am going to wash and shave and find a clean shirt. War, Faram and all Ivalice can wait their turn.' He replied blithely indifferent to her tenuous emotional state, caught on the precipice of joy and shock.

With the keen eye and sly smile of a practiced cad he turned back to her and looked her up and down, smirking.

'I would repeat my invitation to your Highness to join me in my ablutions, except I suspect you are carrying so much extra….._bulk_…..that I fear we would not both fit.'

Ashe gasped in momentarily astounded outrage. Acting on impulse, she shoved him forcibly, using that _extra weight _she had gained to good affect, and knocking him face first into the bathtub.

She lowered herself to the cool tiled floor of her bathroom, laughing and crying with a confused maelstrom of emotion roiling inside her, as Balthier hauled himself out of the bath, spluttering.

For just this one shining moment, as Ashe's hands clasped her heavily laden stomach once more, she was at peace. War, Faram and all Ivalice could indeed wait. If only for the time it took for Balthier to wash, shave and find a clean white shirt.

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_A/N: okay so I broke down. This was supposed to be an interminably depressing chapter with Ashe facing terrible guilt and angst and then I just thought to myself 'for goodness sake give the woman a break!'…..So a reunion in a bathroom and explanations to follow in the next chapter...well, we all love a bit of fluff now and then, don't we? ;) _


	9. Chapter 9

**Rabanastre; The Palace**

_A/N: As always, to all the people who have reviewed and kept up with these crazy constant updates: Zaz9-Zaa0, Sapereaude13, Cable Fraga, Ashelia92, Spekkul, Reforzado, Larxenethefirefly, priya13 and everyone else who has taken the time to write such nice things...it's all your fault this story is updating so fast! This story feeds on reviews and my fingers are tapped out!_

_Thank you!_

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He really wished he could sleep. His twenty-seven year old body felt something more akin to sixty-seven as exhaustion permeated his every thought. Now that he had stopped, now that he no longer had gut churning fear to motivate and galvanise his muscles and force him forward, he rather thought that he would never move again.

Ashe slept beside him; he always derived a strange pleasure from the simple exercise of watching her sleep. Ashelia slept with the same, fierce, dedicated determination that governed every other aspect of her life.

She slept as if it was some form of competitive sport and she must prove that she was the most insensate, the most inarguably unconscious. She slept with a frown of effort puckering her brow and her small mouth half open.

Currently her arms were flung up, elbows at right angles so her hands, palms up, resting on either side of her head as if in surrender. A pale strand of her fine hair fell across her forehead irritating her, he swept it aside dutifully and her frown lightened.

Balthier had worried that Ashe would badger him incessantly with questions. Demand to know everything that had gone on in Rozzaria immediately, force him divulge and relive every ignominious moment for the sake of her own curiosity.

Thus he was deeply relieved when she did not. Balthier was almost guiltily grateful for the exhaustion that glazed her eyes and proved so easy to play on as he enticed her to lay her head down upon her pillows a moment, which had now stretched into an hour and looked to last the rest of the day.

It gave him to time, precious time, to gather his wits and fabricate a more palatable truth to tell her when she woke.

Almost involuntarily he glanced down from her pretty, strangely empty sleeping face, devoid of the emotion that enlivened her doll like features in wakefulness. His gaze rested furtively on the simply staggering protrusion of her stomach.

When he'd first staggered into the Ashe's bed chamber (technically_ their_ bed chamber, but he had spent so little time within it he had formed no attachment to the four walls or anything within) he had failed to notice the physical change in her, curled up as she had been in her bed sheets.

When confronted with her awake and huge with child, he was caught between the paradoxical and disturbing desire to laugh as she waddled when she walked and a vague sense of disgust.

Almost unconsciously he let his hand hover over her 'bulk', not quite able to bring himself to rest his hand upon the bulge. He had done so earlier, holding her again for the first time in weeks in the bathroom and relief had smothered his distaste.

However his palm still itched with the memory of the strange, almost rubbery stretched tightness of her skin over the lump expanding her stomach and abdomen. She looked ready to burst, her skin taut and thin like the flesh of over ripe fruit.

His tired mind, filled up and deadened by the horrors he had seen in Rozzaria, delighted in tormenting him with vile images of something small, wrinkled and grasping tearing free of Ashe's womb, erupting from the mountainous curve of her stomach in a shower of arterial blood.

Snatching his hand away Balthier rolled off the bed and moved swiftly but in lurching and ungainly fashion to the bathroom. Taking deep breaths he splashed cold water on his face and berated himself savagery in the privacy of his own thoughts.

He had always been peculiarly repulsed by the sight of a pregnant woman, he was ashamed to find that feeling, the vague sense of being in the presence of something obscene and unnatural (which in itself was laughable) accosted him when he looked on Ashe.

He took one last long inhale and let it out slowly, eyes shuddering closed. He had truly hoped to have some level of control over his emotions and was privately disgusted with himself that he could not simply push aside this undesirable facet of his character the way he denied so many other long buried parts of his psyche.

What sort of a man found the sight of his own pregnant wife repulsive? Or was it the very fact that the thing inside her was at least in part flesh of his flesh and thus of Dr Cid's benighted lineage, the reason for it all?

'Deal with it man.'

He muttered darkly as he carefully, so as not to disturb Ashe, who had not had the best of times lately all things considered, lowered himself back down onto the bed and thought about sleep.

Ashe continued to slumber with single-minded concentration, oblivious to his inner turmoil. Once more his eyes rooted to the mound of her stomach tented under the thin sheets.

Growling with annoyance, more at himself than her, he rolled Ashe over on her side, which was always so easy when she slept. Ashe was never so pliant and malleable as when wrapped in dreams.

A slight stirring and rearranging of her limbs was the only response Ashe made to being pushed onto her side. Balthier now had an innocuous view of her nightdress swathed back.

Of course, guilt at his own actions swiftly chased the heels of annoyance and Balthier sighed miserably and wrapped his arms around her hauling her across the bed towards him and into the cradle of his arms.

Still Ashe barely reacted; it was truly amusing how deeply she slept. Balthier somewhat suspected that Ashe may have been one of those children inclined towards sleepwalking. Right now, however, Ashe was doing nothing at all and seemed determined to continue in this fashion for some time yet.

Not looking at the……_temporary physical abnormality…._as Balthier determined to refer to the bulge that made it difficult for him to put both arms fully around Ashe, made it somewhat easier to rationalise around his foolish and admittedly reprehensible aversion to this perfectly natural part of existence.

Less than two minutes later Balthier had rolled away from Ashe who muttered something in comprehensible in her slumber and rolled back onto her back, exposing the bulge in all its monstrous glory.

Balthier pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes as he lay on his back and tried to force his mind to stop. He could not persist with these thoughts. He did not even understand why he felt the way he did.

Ashe rolled over, a laborious process, and reached out with a somnambulant hand towards him, she wriggled across the bed to drop her head onto his shoulder, the fingers of her right hand flexing over his chest, right above his heart.

He tried not to flinch and hated himself thoroughly for the reflexive action, when Ashe's 'temporary physical abnormality' brushed against his side as she snuggled closer.

Of course, it was not entirely inexplicable that he should have no native facility to deal with the most basic of hume intimacies, Balthier reasoned ironically.

Perhaps if he'd actually had a mother himself he would have less of a difficulty with such notions as family and parenthood and, possibly, though the prospect seemed truly alien to him right now, he might have been able to view the life growing inside Ashe with some degree of affection and warmth.

Alas, he had never known the Lady Ezria Bunansa, wife of Cidolfus, mother of Hyram and Vassili, the loved and much lamented lost sons of Cidolfus Demen Bunansa.

Mother, also, at least in the technical sense, of Ffamran Mid Bunansa. The child who lived and was neither much loved nor lamented by Cidolfus; the child who had the distaste to be born in breach and so monstrously tear up his labouring mother upon his eventual delivery that she died of a massive haemorrhage.

Yes, Ffamran, Balthier's true creator, had not had the most auspicious of beginnings.

Balthier frowned thoughtfully, did Ashe truly comprehend that she carried around inside her the potential means of her own demise?

Balthier could not help but be acutely aware of this and the thought of Ashe bleeding to death in a bed awash with her own internal fluids in favour of a tiny, red and helpless creature that could offer nothing in return except utter dependence, twisted in his gut.

Almost defiantly Balthier carefully slipped an arm around Ashe and brushed his palm over her nightgown covered bulge.

_Bloody hell!_

_It moved_. Balthier rolled onto his side, unsettling Ashe, who swatted at him sleepily but did not wake as he settled her head down on the pillow and carefully pulled down the sheet so he could look at the 'temporary physical abnormality' more carefully.

Covered by her crisp, modest nightdress he could not detect any movement emanating from the aforementioned abnormality and so tentatively rested his palm against Ashe's stomach once more.

Almost immediately he jerked his hand away once again as something, deep below the layers of taut, stretched skin, kicked against his palm.

This would not do. This would not do at all. Balthier, if nothing else, had a reputation to uphold and this craven weakness was not befitting the elaborate, sometimes exhausting, pretence of the leading man he diligently maintained.

Yes, alright, the foetus had moved, squirming under the skin like some internal parasite incubating deep within Ashe's body, but that was normal. Or so he assumed, it seemed logical that the thing moved around in there. It was alive after all.

Balthier hauled himself out of Ashe's bed once more; he would not gain any rest, that was palpably clear.

Fatigued as he was his thoughts would give him no respite and he did not have the fortitude to try and repress the emotions he knew would destroy his marriage if Ashe gained an insight into them.

Dressing properly and pulling his boots back on, grimacing at the gritty feeling of trapped sand against the soles of his feet, Balthier briefly stooped at the side of the bed to drop a kiss onto Ashe's forehead garnering another unintelligible mutter from her and a hand raised to swat him away, before he then left the chamber.

He would sleep on board the Strahl if he had too.

'Balthier.'

The cultured and accented voice of the Marquis Halim Ondore so startled Balthier that he was forced to catch a hold of the guard rail of the staircase leading from the queen's private quarters before he fell down the stone steps to his death.

Reluctantly he turned to face his in-law. 'Marquis.' He nodded distractedly.

'How fares my niece?' Ondore walked slowly towards Balthier from further down the corridor and the direction of his own guest lodgings.

'Asleep, I should think it will be a fair few hours before she's prepared to wake.'

Ondore nodded grimly, 'Then we have the opportunity to discuss the situation as it stands, before the Lady Ashe awakens.'

Balthier quirked an eyebrow curiously; his relationship with most of Ashe's intimates, or members of her government was tenuous at best.

He and Basch generally avoided each other socially. The Rabanastran privy council were afraid of him (which was no bad thing) and as for Ondore, well, Balthier and the Marquis had a peculiar kind of understanding.

'Indeed and how does the situation stand?' Balthier's lips curved into a humourless smirk. Yes, he and the Marquis were like-minded men; cynical to the core of their jaded souls.

Ondore regarded him steadily, blandly. 'I'm sure you are now well acquainted with the particular political bias of our mutual friend Al-Cid Margrace.'

Balthier's smirk fell away completely and he suppressed the urge to scowl. 'That is one way to put it, yes.' Balthier murmured darkly.

Ondore nodded, 'Admirable though his principles are they are not practical in this situation. I fear with the escalation of violence in Rozzaria and the obvious threat to the Lady Ashe that the hand of peace and diplomacy will grant as no rewards, nor respite from danger.'

Balthier sighed deeply, 'I am on my way to check on my ship sir, we can talk candidly there.'

He said shortly, Balthier had neither the patience nor the mental acuity at the present time to waste on the careful ambiguity of phrase necessary for these backstairs intrigues.

Reaching the Strahl, his beautiful vessel stripped of her ornamentation and looking under dressed and bereft moored up in the Palace back courtyard, was not the simple matter Balthier had expected.

Balthier had never actively courted the adoration or even the acceptance of Rabanastre's population, yet strangely they had accepted him with very little reservation.

In fact the care-free citizens of Rabanastre rather enjoyed the notion of a sky pirate for a royal consort. Of course this was the city that had spawned Vaan, so Balthier supposed decorum and propriety had never factored highly in the Rabanastran public sphere.

Still, it was peculiar and somewhat irritating when the groups of labourers, loitering in the shade after long hours toil amid the cathedral wreckage and enjoying free refreshments from the palace kitchens, waved and pointed and bobbed their heads like fat bodied poultry to him as he and Ondore passed.

'Master Balthier, you're back.'

'Sire.'

'We'll give those Rozzarian's something to think about now you're back.'

Balthier decided to ignore them all. It just seemed safer, though why anyone would think he was a galvanising factor in any retaliation Dalmasca might mount in response to her recent troubles was a mystery to him.

Ashe was perfectly capable of going to war without him; in fact she was far more given to defiance and violence than he was.

Alas, it was the fault of the reputation he had garnered as sky pirate, gentleman criminal, and compatriot of renegade princesses in need of a throne. It was times like this he rued the day he decided to make himself infamous throughout Ivalice.

Once safely inside the cabin of the Strahl, Balthier turned to Ondore, with a faint smirk on his face.

'You are clearly not advocating a declaration of war against Mishman Margrace. You are, after all, known far and wide as 'Halim the temporiser', the man who collaborated with both the Empire and the Resistance during the Dalmascan wars.'

'There are ways of removing a threat that do not involve open war. Rozzaria is a battleground; all manner of misfortunes can befall a combatant upon the field of war.'

Ondore replied smoothly, leaning nonchalantly on his cane as he stood in the flight cabin. Balthier belatedly waved his hand towards the passenger seats in a vague concession to etiquette and Ondore sat down smoothly.

Balthier flopped down into the pilot's chair and propped his feet up on the butchered control panel (silently promising his precious Strahl that no expense would be spared in restoring her to her former glory.)

'Assassinate Mishman Margrace and you make him a martyr. In the eyes of the Kiltia Ascendancy he will acquire near godhood in status.' Balthier pointed out dryly.

'I do not speak of the man, but the power behind his stolen throne.'

Ondore did not attempt to pretend that he was not speaking of assassination, espionage and other nefarious means to remove the threat to peace that Mishman and his adherents represented.

Compared to men like Basch, curdled and hamstrung by his honour, or even the Lord Larsa and Ashe herself (who would kill a man face to face without flinching but hesitated to stab a man in the back) it was mightily refreshing to discuss what truly needed to be done without pretence nor false scruples.

Nevertheless Balthier felt his eyebrows hike up in some surprise, 'You want to murder the Empress Hepzibah?'

Ondore did not flinch, 'I have no desire to harm anyone; however you and I know that Mishman is merely a stalking horse, a man who had not shown any great religious adherence until he married the now Empress Hepzibah, a former priestess of Kiltia. It is only since that unholy union that this Ascendancy of Kiltias has gained footing and military might.'

Balthier pursed his lips and folded his arms across his chest, for once having foregone his usually tight fitted vest in deference to the Dalmascan heat and his own distracted state of mind.

'Even if I were to agree that the wife holds the power in their bloody union, killing her will only encourage more violence from the Ascendancy.' He said carefully.

'Not if the means to first break that _ascendancy _was made available to us. Mishman and his zealous wife hold the reigns of their rabid army through violence, intimidation and fanatical rhetoric. Al-Cid Margrace is a man given to his own form of rhetoric, but one unwilling to draw blood for his ideals, still he can stand in contrast to the barbarism of the Kiltia Ascendancy.'

Ondore's carefully measured and deliberately chosen words made the air inside the Strahl's cabin heavy and leaden. Balthier unfolded his arms and tugged at his cuffs, giving physical expression to his increasing discomfort.

'I warn you there are a great many things Al-Cid will not sully himself to do because of those blasted _principles_. If he is your great hope for preventing all out war then you may as well give up now.'

Balthier all but spat, sitting up abruptly in the pilot's chair and letting his feet drop to the metal grated floor of the flight cabin.

Unspoken, perhaps even unknown to Ondore, a name drifted like a ghost upon the stilted air of the Strahl's cabin.

_Alfayna._

Balthier pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees and trying to stem the deluge of recent memories that he had dammed up inside him so well. He saw it all again and could not shy from the memory as he had done the reality.

_A tiny, chubby fisted little hand, fingers limp and half open like the closed petals of a budding flower, lying half submerged in a puddle of liquid mud, oil and blood. A broken and chewed bracelet, pink and purple paint chipped, rested in that tiny palm, a torn and filthy old handkerchief tied to the bracelet soaking in the blood and the slime. _

Balthier gritted his teeth and refused to allow what was and what could never be undone swallow what was here and now and still possible. Mistakes had been made; decisions recanted too late could not be made again. It did not bear thinking on; therefore he would not think on it.

'Are you well?' Ondore was watching him when Balthier lifted his head and only then he realised just how badly his mask had slipped.

'Al-Cid is not to be trusted. Use him as your stalking horse, if you must, but I want no part in it.' Balthier snapped fiercely.

Ondore continued to watch him steadily for a moment then nodded slowly. His dark, shrewd, eyes seemed to read Balthier easily. 'Do you believe that Al-Cid lacks the requisite skills to govern Rozzaria?'

Balthier, who was dearly wishing he could take back his ill-conceived words of moments ago, words motivated by a grief he was not at all sure he had any moral right too in any respect, affected to drag his guise of mild disinterest and polite nonchalance back around him.

'Al-Cid is a self-styled man of peace; he is good for little else.' Balthier demurred in off-handed fashion, refusing to be drawn further into discussion.

Balthier, endeavoured, in fact, to let Ondore, the master of international political intrigue, do what he willed on his own.

After all, Balthier had done enough for the sake of Ivalice wide peace. He was now tired of the charade. Peace was not a native state for Humes in Ivalice.

'You seem troubled, Balthier.' Ondore, watching him like a hunting bird with prey in sight, dragged Balthier's attention back to the present and all its attendant dangers.

'I myself am curious as to how news of the Lady Ashe's plight reached you in Rozzaria, when she was unable to discover if you still drew breath.' He added keenly.

This was at least a safer subject and Balthier smiled darkly, 'I have acquaintances with many people in low places, Marquis. You would be amazed at what one Archadian streetear can achieve when funded by the _good will _of a certain altruistic Emperor with a vested interest.'

Ondore looked both surprised and highly sceptical, but Balthier, who had a number of questions of his own as to how _Rikken_ had arrived in the Mikanel desert with news from Dalmasca by way of Old Archades, had no inclination to offer further explanation.

Especially as he suspected, and Rikken had all but confirmed, Jules' sticky fingers in the skein of things, and fearing the footing of this particular bill for services rendered, Balthier was reluctant to delve any further into the matter.

For now he was simply grateful the news Rikken had brought was wrong and word of Ashe's demise was very much in error.

In fact, thinking on it, he suspected Rikken had been sent into the heart of the Rozzarian violence with deliberately false information as nothing else but rumour of Ashe's death would have tempted him to risk being shot out of the sky by the Rozzarian airguard on his way back to Dalmasca.

'Very well, I will question you no further, though it pleases me to hear that Archades and her Emperor bestir to offer aid, albeit through convoluted means.' Ondore conceded.

'Archades cannot afford to enter a war with Rozzaria, her greatest economic and military rival, anymore now then they could when pursuing Nethecite.' Balthier dismissed Ondore's gently barbed criticism of his mother country impatiently.

'In any regards, the more convoluted the means, the better, is that not right, Marquis? None of us wish to be the one to plunge Ivalice into another interminable conflict.'

'I fear we have one already.' Ondore rejoined calmly.

'Thus it needs clear heads to strike clinically at the canker in the centre of this budding crisis before we find ourselves faced with another Vayne Solidor,' Ondore raised his eyebrows insinuatingly, 'Or worse still, another of Dr Cid's ilk, providing the fuel for war, in the guise of Hepzibah and her followers.'

Balthier had been expecting the insinuation to his father and so the barb did not strike home, 'Quite.' he drawled insouciantly.

With lazy grace entirely feigned Balthier rose to his feet, yawned, took his time to stretch and smiled disingenuously on Ondore as the man rose arthritically to his feet also.

'I must confess myself rather fatigued, Marquis, I have enjoyed this little chat immensely but now I should be returning to Ashe.'

'Indeed.' Ondore said. 'No doubt you and she will have much to discuss.'

Balthier said nothing at all in response to this and he did not acknowledge the dark gleam in those old eyes which served as the mirror of mind that had weathered, orchestrated, and avoided decades of Ivalice's bloody history.

After disembarking the Strahl Ondore called after Balthier as he headed off swiftly towards the palace.

'Ashe is a good, strong leader. She has been tested and proved her mettle in battle.' Ondore said slowly, in his usual measured tones. Balthier watched and waited for the caveat that he knew was coming.

Ondore did not disappoint him.

'I do not dispute that my niece is worthy of this and any challenge, but there are some things a leader cannot be seen to do, nor condone.'

Balthier remained impassive. He knew exactly to what Ondore inferred, he had been raised in the shadow of one of the greatest and most corrupt political machines in all Ivalice after all; he had once worn the armour of the Judges. Yet if he must hear these words and heed them then Ondore would not be spared the speaking of these furtive, dark truths.

Smooth and ascetic Ondore pressed on, undaunted. 'If there are decisions Ashe cannot be seen to make, I should hope you would make them for her; in the interests of Dalmasca's greater good and your own household.'

Balthier felt his lip curl, though he was not sure what disturbed him more, Ondore's expectations or the fact that if it came to it Balthier might very well make those elusive decisions that would not be spoken of aloud in daylight nor in shadow; those actions that men of principle would never conceive of.

'A man should always have hope Marquis, is that not what Faram teaches us?' Balthier smiled insipidly, nodded brusquely and left the elder gentleman to his schemes.

Ashe was stirring groggily when he returned to the bedchamber, taking pains to exorcise any signs of his ire from his countenance as he removed his boots at the door.

'You left again.' Ashe struggled into a sitting position, crossed legged on the bed, the sheets pooling in her lap. Her movements were laborious and awkward, hindered by her condition.

'Merely partaking of the air.' He replied blandly and even to him the line sounded less than convincing.

Ashe looked at him askance, 'In the middle of a Dalmascan summer? Balthier you loathe the heat, you complain of it incessantly.'

'Perhaps long absence has lessened my ire?' He smiled, though his heart was not in the teasing.

Ashe seemed to sense this, or perhaps her own spirits were too heavy for their usual verbal jousts.

'Perhaps.' She said quietly, her hands nervously hovering over her bulging stomach.

For a silent moment they both looked down on her stomach, then as one met the other's gaze.

'Alfayna.' He said suddenly.

The name, or maybe it was more a confession, escaped his lips unbidden and he could not recant, nor retract, that one damning string of syllables.

'What?' Ashe frowned as his eyes dropped and rooted to her stomach; she frowned and pressed her hands almost protectively against her rounded belly.

'A name; if the child is a girl. We call her Alfayna.' He knew his tone was somewhat harsh, strident, but he could not help it.

Ashe was watching him with all the calculating shrewdness of her uncle, 'Alfayna.' She rolled the name on her tongue. 'The name is Rozzarian. It means 'bright one', sometimes it can mean 'peace'.'

Ashe, Balthier knew, had a great love of languages and linguistics. He enjoyed clockwork mechanisms and she enjoyed double translations and the Bhujerban art of crossword puzzles. At that moment, however, Balthier would have much preferred to remain in ignorance of the meaning behind that name. The name had meaning enough for him already.

'Did you choose the name deliberately?' Ashe queried, at least appearing receptive to the prospective name. 'Did you know the meaning of the name?'

Balthier smiled sourly and shook his head moving doggedly and heavy-footed towards the bathroom; he suddenly felt the need for another bath. He was feeling soiled and unclean from his earlier conversation with the Marquis.

'I have no facility with languages, Highness, you know this.' He murmured as he pushed open the door to the bathroom.

'Then why that name?' Ashe called sounding more perplexed than annoyed when he kept his back to her.

Balthier hesitated and ducked his head, one arm braced against the doorframe and knuckles whitening as he gripped the frame too tightly; memory unsought and unwanted assaulted him.

_He had been intent on leaving the encampment in Mikanel without delay. Al-Cid was adamant that he would not leave Rozzaria and had gathered quite a force of free men and refugees around him, some seven thousand strong, upon the yellow wastes of the Mikanel desert. _

_Balthier, Fran and Rikken had taken their leave of the camp smoothly and without fuss. Balthier informing Rikken that he did not believe for a moment Ashe was dead but as he had been planning to leave Rozzaria in any respect it made no odds to leave now._

_He knew that Rikken saw through his act, a blind man could. Fear crawled under his clothes at the thought of Ashe and her kingdom under siege while he loitered in a desert getting sun burn._

_Alfayna, the infant who had persisted in following him around and attempting to wrench his ear-rings from his ear lobes at any given opportunity, had detected his defection at the last moment and began bawling and caterwauling in the annoying fashion of small infants, Green Bird had swiftly swept the child up in her arms and carried her away. _

_Balthier had carried on walking and thought no more of the child, why would he? _

_Not far along the dune tracks, as he, Fran and Rikken crested the rise of one large sand dunes, they had seen across the rippling horizon the dust cloud of a mass of approaching artillery vehicles en-route to Al-Cid's rebel camp. _

_His mind fixed upon Dalmasca and Ashe Balthier had strenuously advocated pressing onwards to the Strahl regardless and letting the Rozzarians fight among themselves. He, Fran and Rikken only turned back, some time later, when the way forward was blocked by the scouts of a simply staggering military force cresting the horizon like a horde of insects' intent upon Al-Cid's camp._

_They had hurried back, driven by necessity and not intent, only to find the advance force they had seen previously had already made it to the camp. The canvas tents and wagons were ablaze, the hot desert air riven with screams. _

_It was only then that Balthier thought at all on Alfayna. _

'Penance.' Balthier said in the present his back to the woman he truly did love, at least as much as he was able, and the unborn child, the notion of which filled him with nothing but self-loathing.

'The name will be a penance.' He whispered and saying no more he walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

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_A/N: next: Penelo's odyssey takes her to Balfonheim...will Larsa follow? _


	10. Chapter 10

**An Interlude in the Port of Balfonheim**

_A/N: Here is another thank you to everyone as already this story has reached fifty reviews (lots of happy yelping)! _

_A special note to Sapereaude13 thank you for the PM… the link worked fine and now I am no longer in ignorance as to what exactly LJ community is….yah!_

_Finally I'm still feeling my way in the dark a bit with Penelo/Larsa and sadly this chapter has been hijacked by the overall plot a bit….still I think the Larsa/Penelo fluffiness in here is rather cute. ;) _

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Penelo could not help but feel just ever so slightly like a kidnapper. Well, no, not a kidnapper, but she didn't think there was a word for 'helping the Emperor escape his palace to travel to a pirate port to meet with his friend who has just escaped his own war-torn country, so that they can discuss things that the senate doesn't want discussing.'

'Where did you find this craft?'

Larsa's soft spoken question startled her as Penelo concentrated on landing the tiny, pokey little airship (a skiff or skiffer as it was known by those in the trade) into the Balfonheim aerodrome.

'Oh, it's a rental.' Penelo admitted.

'I see.' Larsa, 'Did you rent the craft under your own name?' He sounded just a touch worried.

Penelo shook her head, nibbling her lip slightly as she manoeuvred the ugly, squat rusty grey skiff into a docking bay. She could fly an airship and was an able navigator but in truth she had never been very good at docking, or take-off, which were the hardest parts of airship piloting.

'I didn't rent it….a friend did that.' At least she hoped that Jules had rented it and not stolen the craft, she wouldn't put it past the streetear but Penelo trusted Gerty and Gerty said that they had a friend in the rental business that would take care of everything.

Larsa looked a little disconcerted, 'I see.' He said again.

'Don't worry.' Penelo managed a smile now that the skiff was properly docked and she hadn't crashed the thing into a wall (which she had done once to the Beirouge, and numerous times to the Veccara –much to Vaan's annoyance).

'These friends won't leave any traces. If the Senate find out you've left they won't find out how or where you went.'

'I am not sure I care if they do.' Larsa admitted sighing as he brushed a sweep of glossy black hair back from his brow. 'That's what worries me. I should care. As Emperor I really shouldn't be here.'

Penelo didn't say anything as she unbuckled her seatbelt and turned off the engines ready to leave the little ship. It wasn't as though she could say much anyway. She could see it from both sides of the argument.

Larsa wanted to see Al-Cid with his own eyes and talk to his friend, as anyone would, but as Emperor it would be really bad if he was seen with the disgraced Al-Cid by someone loyal to Al-Cid's brother or one of Larsa's political enemies.

'We can go back.' Penelo suggested quietly.

She thought that Larsa might be regretting the argument he'd had with Zaagabaath that had led to Larsa acting very un-Larsa like and just up and walking out of his own Palace.

Penelo could still remember every moment of the amazing scene when Larsa had refused to be told what to do any longer.

'_My Lord you cannot go to Balfonheim. Not only is it politically unwise but the port of Balfonheim is not a safe place for a man of your status. There can be no guarantee of your safety.' Zaagabaath had said._

_Larsa, who had been delighted to hear that Al-Cid had made it to Balfonheim and Ashe had been reunited with Balthier in Dalmasca; both men having miraculously escaped Rozzaria with the aid of Rikken from Balfonheim (Penelo, who found it all less miraculous because she knew how the rescue had come about, had sat quietly staring at the floor, hoping to go unnoticed as Larsa quarrelled with his guardian). _

'_I will ensure my own safety.' Larsa had replied hotly, which for Larsa was the same thing as Ashe ripping off her coronet and flinging it at someone who upset her (which Penelo knew Ashe had done once, however Balthier had ducked and the jewel encrusted gold band had broken a palace window and fallen into the garden rose beds). _

'_Need I remind you that Archades has not been a safe place for a man of my status either? I have survived at least five attempts on my life already and none of those have come from pirates!' _

_Larsa had then dropped down onto the sofa Penelo perched on and angrily begun lacing up his plain, sturdy travelling boots, seemingly forgetting that Penelo was beside him. _

_For her part Penelo was fascinated by this new side of Larsa; irritated, arguing back and determined to get away from Archades. _

'_My Lord….' Zaagabaath clearly knew he wasn't going to win but he was supposed to try so he did. 'This is no time for hot-headedness, my Lord Larsa the situation is precarious and filled with unknown dangers. This could be a trap.' _

_Larsa looked up and fixed Zaagabaath with hot, glittering blue eyes, 'I am aware of that. I have no intention of proclaiming my presence to the port and awaiting an outcry.' _

_Larsa had snapped impatiently leaping to his feet once more and moving across to the weapons cabinet in his East Wing study that contained his trusted Joyeux and other short swords. _

'_I may have become a virtual recluse, trapped in this palace for the last year, sir, but need I remind you I was on Bahamut? I travelled to Mount Bur-Omisace with the lady Ashe when I was no more than twelve. I am not a fool.' _

_Penelo had almost forgotten to breathe as she watched Larsa buckle on his sword belts around his narrow waist and pull on a suede brown sur-coat, suddenly transforming himself from a well-dressed Emperor to a self-assured young wayfarer with a glossy shock of black hair. _

_She wasn't exactly scared of this new Larsa; instead her stomach swirled with a strange kind of prickly excitement. This was a different Larsa then the polite, gracious, well-mannered young man who was always so careful to think of others. Penelo wasn't sure, because she adored the nice Larsa, but she thought she might like this Larsa even more. _

_Almost absently Penelo brushed her lips with her fingertips. This new Larsa, she was sure, would not run away after kissing her. At least she hoped he wouldn't. _

'_My Lord, you cannot go alone.' Zaagabaath was stubborn, a man of duty who was going to do his duty to protect Larsa even if Larsa didn't want him too. _

_Larsa had turned then to Penelo who had felt like a dreamhare caught in the path of a bandercouerl when Larsa's brilliant blue gaze drenched her in an intense look that stopped her breath. _

'_I shall not be alone. Penelo will be with me.' Penelo had felt her heart somersault and her cheeks burn at his words. Larsa had turned back to Zaagabaath._

'_If you question my ability to protect myself, you cannot dispute that the Lady Penelo is a veteran warrior of the Bahamut battle. I would trust her with my life implicitly.' _

_He said gravely, looking at Zaagabaath hard. Penelo thought she might have sprouted wings then and there and started floating she had been so filled with a sense of gratitude and pride that Larsa thought so highly of her. _

_Zaagabaath had looked defeated but he pushed on anyway. Penelo thought he was being silly; had Basch been here he would have just agreed to go with them to Balfonheim, but then Basch had been Ashe's protector and nobody told Ashe what she could and could not do. _

_Maybe today Larsa had decided he wouldn't be told what to do either? Penelo had wondered what that might mean for all sorts of things. _

_Larsa was watching Zaagabaath with narrowed eyes, 'You cannot stop me, Zaagabaath. That should make you feel somewhat better. Even if you try to prevent my leaving, I shall have the guards detail you at my leisure until I return.' _

_Penelo had gasped in shock and then covered her mouth with her hands to smother her giggles when she saw the look on Zaagabaath's face. She had never seen so much surprise on one person's face. His mouth actually dropped open._

_Larsa nodded his head slowly, expression very grave. 'I think you have forgotten who is Emperor here. I am leaving for Balfonheim, Zaagabaath, and I am ordering you to assist in this endeavour.' _

_Looking grim, but with his mouth shut, Zaagabaath had given Larsa a formal Archardian style bow, clicked his heels and walked stiffly out of the study with a gruffly muttered:_

'_As you command my Emperor.' In response._

_Once he was gone Penelo was left staring at Larsa in silence, her hands still covered her mouth because she had really badly wanted to giggle but was afraid that Larsa would be angry._

_She needn't have worried; Larsa's mouth had twitched, he had frowned slightly and then he could not hold it in any more and Penelo had been delighted to watch Larsa collapse into hiccupping laughter that she soon joined in. _

'_I am sure I shall regret saying such shortly, but for now…' Larsa shook his head eyes shiny with laughter, almost without thinking he had took up and squeezed her hands._

'_Penelo, I cannot express how long I have waited to say that!' _

_Penelo grinned, 'You were very Imperial like. Even Ashe couldn't have done better and you know how she is.' _

_They had laughed even more and it was lovely. To Penelo it had been kind of like being with Vaan, but much, much better. _

Penelo, in the skiff sitting idle in Balfonheim Port, felt her lips curl up as she remembered, once more, Zaagabaath's face when Larsa had told him off. As if he knew what she was thinking, or maybe he too had been thinking about it, Larsa chuckled softly.

The sound in the small, dark skiff made her stomach tingle and her heart skip a beat.

'No, Penelo, I think this is the first decision I have made in months that I do not have doubts about. I do not want to go back to Archades….at least not yet.' Larsa had admitted quietly in a strange _wistful_ tone.

Penelo looked at Larsa thoughtfully as he gazed sadly out of the dirty windshield glass and beyond. Her heart went out to him.

Larsa had become a prisoner in Archades since he became Emperor, usually allowed to go no further than the gentry controlled areas of the city and only then if accompanied by an armed guard.

It was sad because as clever and learned as Larsa was he wasn't the stay indoors, nose in a book sort. Larsa had an adventurous, curious spirit and it was, Penelo thought, a waste that Archades didn't let him out and about. Larsa would be able to do more good if he was let out of the Capital now and again.

She also thought that it would be good for Larsa. He was only seventeen, after all.

An idea came to Penelo; it was a game she and Vaan enjoyed playing. A game of make believe. 'Larsa, I have an idea.'

Larsa turned to face her slowly, the faint light from the crystal-lamps in the docking bay catching his hair and casting his face into shadow. 'Oh?'

'Yes. You need a new name.' Penelo smiled warming to the idea.

'A new name?' Larsa frowned.

Penelo nodded, shifting in her seat. 'Yes, your travelling incognito, so I can't call you Larsa. You have to be someone else, with a cover story and everything. Think of a name.'

She encouraged, twisting in the bucket seat so she didn't have to strain her neck to look at him.

Larsa smiled faintly, 'Very well…..Lamont.'

Penelo rolled her eyes, 'Oh, original.' She said and then remembered who she was talking to and blushed slightly, 'I mean…..'

Larsa was smiling, 'You _mean_ that I have no imagination.' He shook his head, 'I suppose you are right, but I like the name and it has always brought me luck. I met you the day I devised that alias, after all.'

Penelo fidgeted in her seat a moment, 'Okay, you can keep the name Lamont. I guess it's a nice name.'

'Indeed, but which name do you prefer, Lamont or Larsa?' He looked almost serious as he asked that question except for the twinkle the dim light from the outside crystal-lamps brought to life in his eyes.

Penelo decided to ignore the question and focus instead on creating a new identity for Larsa. She had her pride after all. She wasn't going to go around blushing like a silly girl. She was supposed to be the older one.

'So you're Lamont but what do you do? And you can't say you're an emperor or a senator or anything like that, it has to be a normal trade.' She added, making up the rules of this game as they both sat in the near dark of the skiff.

'I see, and naturally, no one who engages in politics can be deemed normal.' Larsa sounded deeply amused, turned in his seat also so that he could face her.

Penelo sighed impatiently and ended speaking to Larsa in the same strained, but patient voice that she used with Vaan. '_Lamont _is not a politician. This is supposed to be a chance to be what you're not Larsa, that's the whole point in having a secret identity.'

Larsa blinked, 'And I _need_ a secret identity?'

Penelo began to fiddle with her seatbelt again avoiding the very open, bright eyed look Larsa was giving her.

'You do if you want to get out of the Palace every once in a while.' She pointed out, a little embarrassed and not sure why.

'Ah, yes. Good point.' Larsa sat still and thoughtful for a few seconds, 'Could I be some form of trader; perhaps a travelling salesman of some sort?'

'Star fruit!' The idea popped into Penelo's head unexpectedly and she grinned hugely.

'You are a travelling star fruit salesman. You bring Dalmasca's native fruit to people all over Ivalice.'

Larsa gave her a bemused and slightly sceptical look, 'And there is such a market for star fruit in Ivalice?'

Outside a group of Moogles floated by followed by a rather scarred and suspicious looking Seeq wearing a heavy, over-stocked tool-belt. The Seeq's metal heeled boots clanked heavily on the sheet metal walkway adjoining the docking bays and the vibrations ran up the thin hull of the skiff.

'Star fruit are very important fruit, Larsa. Trust me.' She said seriously. Wouldn't Vaan be pleased?

'I do.' Larsa said equally serious.

There was a moment's strange silence between them and in it Penelo realised that really they should have got off the skiff and gone to meet Al-Cid a good ten minutes ago.

It wasn't really proper (at least Penelo didn't think it was, though her understanding of Archadian proper-ness was less than complete) the two of them sitting alone in the dark together.

'Anyway,' Penelo said a little too loudly and a little too cheerfully, 'You are Lamont the travelling star fruit salesman and you're here in Balfonheim to…'

'To sell star fruit?' Larsa suggested with a smile.

'Yes,' Penelo nodded, 'and while you were selling your fruits by the beach I came along and you stopped me and asked if I wanted to buy some star fruit.'

Larsa looked both curious and amused, 'I am a somewhat presumptuous salesman, I take it. May I ask what _you_ are doing in Balfonheim?'

'Larsa, you are a salesman. Of course you have to try and sell your fruit.' She pointed out simply, 'And it's not presumptuous because it just so happens that I was thinking how much I'd like a Star fruit and you appeared with a wheel-barrel full of them.'

Larsa raised a fist to his mouth and coughed politely, clearly trying not to laugh. 'A wheel-barrel? Do I not warrant a vendor's stall, or at the very least a cart?'

'You prefer to travel light. Don't nit-pick Larsa!' Penelo was beginning to think that Larsa and Vaan actually had something in common. They both asked silly questions at the worse times.

Larsa managed to look properly sorry and nodded his head almost as if bowing to her, 'Apologies. I am unfamiliar with secret identities, and I must confess, the intricacies of life as a small trader. What happens after I give you a star fruit?'

'Give me? No I buy one.' Penelo said firmly.

They were leaning forward in their seats and Larsa's suede leather clad knee brushed against her own boot covered knee as they sat together huddled like two people sharing secrets, which they sort of were.

Larsa shook his head firmly, 'Oh, no. I gave you a complimentary Star fruit. I am not such a rogue that I would try to sell a fruit plentiful in your native country to a lady such as yourself as if it was so great a bounty. I would be nothing more than a charlatan.'

Penelo thought about this and the very real fact that Larsa would make a lousy salesman with an attitude like that. In fact she told him as much.

'Well, kindness is a greater reward than material wealth.' Larsa said just vaguely affronted.

Penelo grinned, 'Only a rich person would say that.' She told him confidently, thinking about the unhappy fact that rich people were usually happy anyway. 'Only someone with lots of Gil would say Gil doesn't matter.'

'Well….' Larsa did not appear to know what to say to this. Then he seemed to remember where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.

'In any regards,' he said with the authority and command native to the Emperor of Archadia, 'I am not a star fruit salesman and we must meet with Al-Cid.'

'Right.' Penelo nodded, wondering if she had upset Larsa, but that didn't seem to be the case.

As they eased their way past labourers over-burdened with sack clothes filled with mysterious produce and the occasional well dressed wayfarer or buxom painted lady filling the aerodrome foyer, Larsa cast her a swift, amused look.

'A philanthropist. I shall be a philanthropist, not a fruit salesman. As you have stated that I don't have the necessary hard-nosed ruthlessness to make a success of a career in commerce.'

Penelo turned to him to say something in response and at that moment a large, greasy, somewhat bad-smelling man, ploughed into her before ricocheting off her into the wall of the aerodrome with a drunken groan. Penelo staggered into Larsa who caught her before she fell. She smiled at him nervously in thanks.

After that it was a matter of staying alert and keeping a hand near their weapon belts and Gil purses as they hurried along the dusk darkened main boardwalk towards the Whitecap Tavern. There was no time for idle talk.

Penelo and Larsa (or Lamont the travelling philanthropist and former unsuccessful fruit salesman) slipped around the back of the large, square, pale brick building sat upon the crescent stone panorama facing out towards the Naldoa Ocean, that housed the infamous Whitecap Tavern.

Reaching the worn, rotted wood door at the back of the tavern Penelo rapped on the door firmly in a quick and intricate rhythm; the secret pirate's knock. (It was funny that of the four veterals of the Bahamut who had ever been pirates Balthier refused to have anything to do with such a ridiculous custom and Fran seemed to share this view, while Vaan could never remember it and only Penelo actually used it.)

A moment later the viewing window opened and a pair of hard, suspicious eyes glared at them both. Penelo smiled brightly.

'Hey, Elza, how are you?'

She ended up talking to the scratched and warped wood of the door as the spy window had already been snapped closed. A moment later the door opened just wide enough to admit the pair of them.

Penelo had time to take in the small, beer stinking, storeroom filled with barrels and crates; a dim, dirt covered crystal light hung from the low, water stained, cracked ceiling and barely illuminated the shabby inside of the Whitecap's cellar.

'Larsa my friend, dis is an unexpected surprise, eh?'

Penelo turned towards the cheerful, heavily accented voice. She expected to see the same floppy haired man in his early thirties wearing the tight fitted trousers and the open shirt that she had first met in Mount Bur-Omisace five years ago.

What she saw instead shocked her to her core.

'Al-Cid, what has happened?'

Larsa moved swiftly towards his friend as the once proud and graceful Al-Cid limped into the room supported on the arm of one of the strange silent women who always followed him about and made Penelo nervous because they never seemed to blink.

Al-Cid looked like one huge, bloody bruise. His tanned skin was every shade of a painful rainbow; green, blue, black, purple, brownish-yellow. His head was bandaged, one eye was swollen and squeezed shut and one arm was in a sling.

Al-Cid still managed to smile and reach up with his good hand to tussle Larsa's hair (though Larsa was now as tall as Al-Cid) 'Eh? Pfft. Nothing my friend, dese are nothing.'

Larsa stepped back and, frowning slightly, took a moment to brush his hair from his eyes. ' Have you no healer or curatives with you? These wounds need to be treated, Al-Cid.'

'No, no, it is well. Let de wounds lie as dey are, my friend. I take my penance gladly as I be thankful for de life I still 'ave, eh?'

Al-Cid stepped back, wincing as he leaned heavily on his bad leg and the blue tunic wearing silent woman caught his arm and led Al-Cid to the rickety trellis table set up in the cellar.

Larsa, concerned for his welfare frowned at Al-Cid quizzically. 'Nonsense; there is no logic in refusing treatment when it is available. Penelo would you…?'

Penelo had already approached Al-Cid from the other side of the table her hands glowing faintly with the healing magick she had called to her.

'Wait.' Al-Cid held up a hand and looked keenly at Penelo, 'Tell me, how fare your mistress, my dear friend de Lady Ashe?'

Penelo blinked in surprise and cast a swift glance Larsa's way, puzzled. 'Um, she's well I guess. I think what happened to the cathedral has upset her but having Balthier back will help. Vaan says they've already cleared most of the wreckage, ready to rebuild.'

Penelo could not help feeling guilty that she had not gone home to Rabanastre to see for herself but told herself firmly that she was needed by Larsa; not to mention Jules and Gerty wouldn't let her go.

Al-Cid and the strange woman, who stood protectively close to him, shared a strange look the woman placed a supportive hand on his shoulder.

'And de baby? De Lady Ashe's child lives?'

Penelo nodded, 'Yes.'

A strange expression crossed Al-Cid's dark, handsome face. It was thoughtful, relieved but also slightly angry, or at least it seemed so to Penelo. Al-Cid nodded slowly.

'Den my penance is no longer needed.' He gestured with a smile for Penelo to come closer. 'I am grateful to yourself, my lady Penelo, for any help you can be giving me.'

Larsa moved towards the table and sat down across from Al-Cid, hands clasped together on the table top, pensively.

'Al-Cid this makes no sense; why should the Lady Ashe's welfare have any bearing on your decision to take healing or not?' Larsa asked keenly. He frowned. 'Who inflicted such grievous injury upon you, my friend?'

Al-Cid could not answer at first because Penelo had started her healing. Closing her eyes she ran her hand up and down the length of his body, her open palms hovering an inch above his skin, sensing for the worst of his injuries.

She worked on his head, then his torso, each blackened bruise caused by some form of blunt implement, or a fist, or a booted foot, throbbed under her palms like an angry, burning ache. Soon she had a headache just from this contact with his pain and wondered how Al-Cid could be so cheerful when he was suffering so.

It seemed to Penelo, who was an experienced white mage and had seen more than her fair share of injuries, that whoever did this to Al-Cid had not wanted to kill him; instead they wanted to cause as much pain as they could. This attack had been vicious.

Finally it was over and Penelo opened her eyes with a weary, but relieved, sigh that was echoed by Al-Cid himself. Restored to good health, Al-Cid smiled and kissed the back of both Penelo's hands with a flourish that made her blush.

'I am in your debt, my golden bloom, truly you be a gracious and goodly maiden.'

Penelo felt herself grow red to the roots of her hair and cast an almost embarrassed and guilty look Larsa's way. 'Um, that's okay, as long as you feel better.'

Al-Cid grinned and the word _provocative _popped into her head at the look on his face; heavy lidded dark eyes and lips curled into a slow, creeping smile. Penelo took a few quick side-steps over to the safety of Larsa's side.

'Al-Cid.' Larsa said seriously, 'I think it is for the best if you go to Dalmasca.'

Penelo looked to Larsa in surprise, but was then distracted, as they all were, as Fran slipped into the cellar from the doorway leading to the main rooms of the Whitecap. Penelo had thought Fran was in Dalmasca with Balthier.

She might have said something in greeting or question to Fran, pleased as she undoubtedly was, to see her. However Larsa was talking once more, his tone grave and very serious.

'The Lady Ashe and yourself have been targeted by this Kiltia Ascendancy, and after discussion with the Marquis Halim Ondore, who has gathered much information on the modus operandi of this fanatical group; we believe that the advantages of having you muster a resistance with Dalmascan backing outweigh the risks that putting you and the Lady Ashe together may incur.'

Al-Cid stiffened and the blue tunic woman gripped his shoulder all the more tightly. Fran folded her arms around herself in a strange gesture that wasn't very like her as she leaned against the wall silently. She did not look at anyone in the room.

To Penelo it seemed that the temperature in the room dropped suddenly. She shivered, not liking the sudden heaviness in the air.

'No. It is not wise that I go to Dalmasca; I 'ave no risk to cause de Lady Ashe further difficulty.' Al-Cid shook his head slowly, firmly.

'I intend to return to Rozzaria as soon as arrangements for transportation can be made. Dis is my battle. I shall be a man, eh, and fight it myself.'

'Al-Cid that is ridiculous.' Larsa argued.

'The Kiltia Ascendancy threaten us all. The only reason Archadia has not experienced anything worse than a few rural skirmishes is because the religion of Faram has never had great sway in the Empire, but in time, I'm sure that will change. We must unite to liberate Rozzaria and ensure Ivalice remains in peace.'

'De Lady Ashe is my friend, just as you be.' Al-Cid smiled but his eyes were hard and stubborn. 'I will not risk her when she is wit' de child. Too much de blood is on my hands already, eh?'

Larsa opened his mouth to argue, 'Halim Ondore believes that Ashe would be agreeable to such an alliance between her kingdom and yourself…'

'Al-Cid cannot go to Rabanastre.'

Fran's cool voice interrupted Larsa. Penelo watched, afraid though she couldn't quite say why, as Fran raised her ancient, red eyes to survey them all. To Penelo it seemed that Fran was uneasy and sad, which was so strange as to be frightening to Penelo.

'Fran why are you here?'

Penelo was surprised to hear her own voice and she wondered why she didn't finish her question: _And why isn't Balthier here with you? _Because even being married to Ashe and Fran spending so much time with Basch in Landis hadn't gotten in the way of the two pirates partnership and it was very….unsettling….for Fran to stay in Balfonheim with Al-Cid, of all people, and not go with Balthier to check on Ashe.

Fran looked Penelo straight in the eye, and it seemed to Penelo, who could read Fran pretty well, even if she did say so herself, that the Viera looked tired.

'Penance.' Fran said.

Penelo frowned, her heart thumping uncomfortably, 'What for?' she whispered. She felt Larsa lace is fingers through hers and she squeezed his hand. Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

Fran spoke carefully, 'It is right that one partner in a business should make amends for the transgressions of the other.'

Fran looked boldly to Al-Cid, but to Penelo, watching closely, it seemed that the flinching around Fran's eyes spoke of some sort of deep sadness…..or guilt.

'I shall depart for Landis now. The debts we two owe are paid.' Fran nodded to Al-Cid, to Penelo and to Larsa and turned to go.

Penelo's eyes darted from Larsa, who looked as confused and worried as she, to Al-Cid who looked as tight-lipped as his blue tunic wearing lady-friend, and then she finally broke away from Larsa's side to follow Fran.

'Fran wait!' Penelo caught up with the long-legged Viera as she left the Whitecap and headed towards the aerodrome.

Fran did not turn but she stopped walking. Penelo came level with the woman she viewed as both friend and mentor. 'Fran what's wrong? Why don't you want to go see Ashe and Balthier?'

'When he is ready he will ask for me. Until such time I shall keep my distance from Balthier.'

Fran started walking again, her long white hair whipping in the wind and her gait steady.

Penelo could only stand agog in the salty sea breeze rushing in from the surf, watching Fran's retreating back. What could have happened to make Fran say something like that?

A strange, dark and chilling suspicion crawled up Penelo's spine and entered her mind. The bruises and cuts on Al-Cid's body; Penelo could be wrong but she thought they looked very like they could have been caused by the butt of a rifle.

Penelo felt deeply strange and disloyal as the next logical step in her thoughts came to her; she resisted it. She tried to block it out. Balthier was family to her. Yet it made sense; the pieces fit. Or at least most of them did.

It just left one question; one burning question. A question Penelo was not sure she wanted to find out the answer to, as she lost sight of Fran in the crowds and turned back towards the Whitecap. Despite her misgivings Penelo could not help but pose that one dark and frightful question in her mind.

Why Balthier had tried to kill Al-Cid Margrace?


	11. Chapter 11

**Rabanastre; ****The**** Long Walk of Heroes**

_A/N: Warning...angst, angst and more angst. __There'll be some plot development next chapter, right now I'm not in the mood for it. So instead I'm cranking up the emotional torture for my favourite dysfunctional couple. _

_If you haven't guessed by now I'm intent on driving poor __Balthier__ to the edge of lunacy in this story...__hahaha_

_P.S: __Spekkul__, for shame! If there is one thing I do well it's the quick update:)_

* * *

Ashe had walked this path many times in the last five and a half years. It was both penance and catharsis.

The lush fronded palms swayed in the faint, hot breeze that never seemed as harsh or cutting as one approached the Oasis.

Ashe's small heeled boots clicked rhythmically as she walked steadily down the paved sandstone path under the marble arches and between the pink and turquoise mosaic tiled walls inscribed with the names of everyone and anyone who had died in the battle for Dalmasca's independence.

Intermittently Ashe would come across bouquets of flowers tied to pillars; collections of votive candles laid out on the floor by the wall of names. There were scraps of paper adhering to the wall with messages on them, written by those who still remembered the owners of the names etched in granite and marble stone as loved ones sorely missed.

Sometimes Ashe walked the three mile path simply to observe those messages; the offerings of fresh baked biscuits or toys that were laid out on the plinths arranged in the specially designed alcoves along the path.

Those small tokens of love and grief evoked bitter sweet emotion in Ashe. She knew the pain of loss that would stay with her people for many generations to come, but she also rejoiced in the fact that these people, who existed nowhere except as letters etched in stone, were nevertheless still remembered and respected for what they had lost.

Ashe stopped when she reached the seventh alcove from the Palace and walked over to check the little pile of offerings laid out on the plinth. She smiled to see the collection of Star fruit (attracting insects in the heat). Vaan had clearly been through here recently.

Reks' name was inscribed on the wall to the right of the alcove, alongside the names of the rest of the platoon who had valiantly tried to protect her father from Archadia's treachery that fateful night in Nalbina.

A small star had been engraved against Reks' name, an acknowledgement of particular heroism; awarded Ashe had to admit, more for the sake of his brother than for Reks himself, though it was no hardship to exonerate a seventeen year old boy who had been used so foully by Vayne Solidor and his supporters.

Not far from Reks alcove Ashe brushed her fingers over the name Azelas Vossler, smiling faintly to herself. Vossler too had a star of merit to his name, though she wondered sometimes whether he would approve of such. He had been prepared to take up the mantle of a traitor after all.

Usually there was any number of people quietly sitting in the alcoves or walking the path during any given day, as Ashe had decreed that the Walk of Heroes be open to the public day and night without restrictions. Today, unusually, there were no other people traversing the path.

Ashe stopped again, as the Bahamut's shadow loomed large above her and the waters of the Oasis rippled and cast shimmering, quicksilver reflections against the creamy white marble, as she came almost to the end of the path.

Here was the smoothed over place where Basch Fon Ronsenberg's name had been removed from the stone in recognition of the fact that he was not dead.

Ashe smiled a little more happily as she brushed her fingers over the sanded down marble; she did not regret revealing Basch's existence to Rabanastre and the rest of Ivalice on her wedding day, it had felt good to revive at least one of the fallen.

The Oasis was a small patch of verdant paradise in the desert, rich in lush green foliage and tropical wild flowers that had never been known to flourish in Dalmasca's arid clime. She had been told that the Mist energy that had leaked from the Bahamut's wreckage and permeated the ground had mutated the local eco-system creating this strange, but beautiful, wilderness.

Ashe was always vaguely awed that such a monstrous construct of war could have produced so much life and vitality when it fell. It was both bitingly ironic and somehow uplifting, Bahamut could have destroyed all Rabanastre but instead it brought life and beauty to the harsh desert.

Stepping out of the covered walkway Ashe shaded her eyes with her hand as she looked upwards towards the high towering bulk of Bahamut.

Moss and vines and creeping greenery twisted and twinned and encircled the blackened, sand blasted and rusted metal skin of the Bahamut until, slouched in the sands with the permanence and solidity of some form of ancient, slumbering juggernaut, the sky fortress seemed almost to have become one with the landscape.

Behind the solid, impregnable bulk of Bahamut, the new town of Bahamut Haven nestled. Carried on the hot breeze she could hear the sounds of busy lives and industrious people; criers declaring their wares, the rumble of carts and wagons, the hammering of tools and building all mingled with the tantalising scents of fresh baked bread and open cooking fires in the small market.

Despite, or perhaps because of the soft, unobtrusive noise of activity and life rising from all around the Oasis, the stillness of the placid crystalline waters and the grassy undulating land around it, was all the more magical.

This was a place of contemplation, a place of reflection and thought, and so it both surprised and worried Ashe that he should be here. She had never seen him so much as set a foot along the Walk of Heroes, let alone come within feet of Bahamut before.

Balthier was sitting by the lakeside, one knee drawn up and an arm hooked around it as he partially reclined on the other elbow, looking up at the hulking shadows of Bahamut with an inscrutable, abstracted and painfully distant expression upon his face.

'No need to simply stand there, Highness. You can join me, I shall not bite.'

He spoke without looking towards her or giving any physical sign of invitation; yet she should have known he'd know she was watching him. She came over and lowered herself carefully down onto the sandy bank beside him.

The soft, fine cotton of his shirt sleeve tickled against her bare arm, but that one, indirect contact was the only touch or acknowledgement he granted her.

It had been very much the norm for the two weeks since his return. Physically he was no more than a palace wing away from her at any given time and yet it seemed he was further from her in the ways that counted than he had been when in Rozzaria.

It was as though his living, breathing body had come home, but the vitality and the energy and that indefinable spark within him, that made Balthier himself, had departed to places unknown.

When she looked into his eyes she saw nothing but shadow. What was worse she did not know what to do about it.

'Did you know there are fish in the water?'

The question startled her, partly because she had expected him to simply ignore her presence beside him as he had done numerous times in recent days, but also because fish had been as far from her pensive thoughts as any one thing could be at that moment.

'Yes, there have been fish in the lake for months. Someone put them there but I do not know who.' She answered in a normal tone of voice even though she wanted to scream at him to damn well look at her when he addressed her.

She wanted to demand he treat her with the dignity a man should accord his wife and not speak to her as if he could barely muster the energy to make idle pleasantries.

She did not do this however because she had promised herself she would not fall into the old habit of screaming at him only to give him the opportunity to avoid having to explain himself by arguing back, or worse, _smirking_ at her. Yelling never won Ashe anything when dealing with Balthier.

'Hmm, birds have nested in the upper levels of the fortress. The bulkheads we travelled through on our way to face Vayne are almost impassable now. It is a veritable jungle within. It is all rather odd, I must say.'

Ashe turned to him sharply and still he did not look at her. 'You went inside?'

That was the only restriction Ashe had placed upon the Oasis, that no-one may enter Bahamut. She had feared it might not be structurally safe, but also she knew that the fortress was the final resting place of some two hundred Imperial soldiers, pilots and technicians who had been crushed in the lower levels when Balthier had steered the stricken fortress into the desert sands.

Balthier and Fran had survived because they had made for the higher levels after abandoning trying to keep the monstrosity airborne; many others were not so knowledgeable or lucky and Ashe had wanted to respect their resting place as it was impossible to get to their bodies.

'I wanted to see for myself.' Balthier answered the pointless question she had almost forgotten she had asked; the tone of his voice scared her. He did not even sound like himself. 'I wonder if he knew when he built her that this could happen? That Mist could generate growth as well as destroy?'

Ashe knew to whom Balthier referred and bit the inside of her lip. She was not good at subtlety, she knew this.

She was not good at patience and understanding, or at least not the sort of understanding that was needed to gently pry from Balthier the reason for the strange lethargy and distraction that had so plagued him these last few weeks. Balthier was many things, quite a few of them less than favourable, but she had never thought him apathetic until now.

'What have I done?' She demanded, unable to keep quiet; unable to think of a way of broaching the subject in more tactful ways and unwilling to swallow down her anger, hurt, and quiet panic as it seemed to her that Balthier slipped daily away from her.

Finally he deigned to look at her, frowning vaguely as if only just noticing her distress, 'Hmm? What are you talking about?'

Forcibly Ashe resisted the almost overpowering desire to slap him. She took a quick breath and refused to release her hold on his gaze; refused to let him avoid looking at her anymore. Every time his gaze darted from her face to her stomach and then away as if disgusted burned through her soul.

She wanted to scratch out his eyes and scream at him while paradoxically she also wanted to throw her arms around him and simply comfort him for she knew, absolutely, that something was terribly wrong with Balthier.

'Does the thought of the child inside me sicken you so much Balthier that you can barely stand to be near me?' She asked him coolly, refusing to let him see how much his attitude hurt her, refusing to give him that advantage.

Dead brown eyes stared right through her, 'You are talking nonsense, Ashe. The heat is not good for a woman in your condition.' He said flatly, not even bothering to deny her accusation, nor acknowledge it. It was as if he simply did not care.

Her hand lashed out and she struck him. Her resolve of moments passed fallen to the wayside. She was who she was and patience and understanding would likely be met with the same cold, bored indifference as her anguish, in any respect.

His head lashed to the side with the force of the blow, her nails curled and caught the sharp curve of his cheek bone, gouging into the smooth shaven skin of his cheek. Shallow cuts filled with blood as his cheek flamed.

'What was that for?' He asked her as languidly he raised a hand to his cut cheek and rolled his tongue inside his mouth. He did not care enough about her it seemed, to waste the time on anger.

He turned his head away to spit out a mouthful of blood and Ashe, her palm stinging from the force of the blow she had landed upon him, shivered slightly wishing she could recant the action even as she itched to slap him again and again until she received some form of reaction.

'Is this revenge?' She demanded needing to speak if only to prevent him from getting up and walking away. 'Are you still angry I made you go to Rozzaria?'

Ashe forced herself to her feet, wanting to have the advantage of being able to physically look down on him as he remained seated upon the sandy shore. She had thought on it long and hard and there was nothing else that she had done to warrant such unfair treatment from him.

From the state of him when he had finally returned to her Ashe knew that he had struggled and weathered hardship to ferry Al-Cid safely to Balfonheim. She supposed, considering all that had happened during that time both in Rozzaria and Dalmasca, she could understand that he might think her insistence on rescuing Al-Cid not worth the pain, but even so, it did not justify this.

Balthier shaded his eyes with one hand and watched her tower over him with eyes in shadow; his expression an almost polite blank.

'Sit down, Ashe.' He reached out to pull her back down beside him by the hand as if she was some sort of rambunctious, misbehaving child. She slapped his hand away.

'By the gods don't you dare patronise me.'

She hissed, the baby kicked inside her and for a moment she thought she would give in to the almost constant urge to cry that she had been battling for days. She turned to stare out at the brilliant sun dancing like bolts of lightening across the rippling surface of the Oasis.

'I won't let you do this to me anymore Balthier. I have given you everything I can give you and still you neither trust nor respect me.'

This time it was she who could not look at him, instead she stared at the rising shadow of the Bahamut. A symbolic reminder of so much tragedy and so much triumph; the fortress had witnessed the restoration of Dalmasca, her coronation and her second marriage.

In a strange way that hulking mass of twisted, rusted, sand encrusted metal and Mist had presided over some of the greatest triumphs of her life, would it now bear witness to her greatest defeat, the collapse of her marriage?

'I won't hold you to promises you have no desire to keep. You have always provided me with what I needed and requested and I thank you for that.' Ashe informed the man who sat on the shore by her feet, watching her with empty, hollow eyes that kept their secrets above all else and refused her entry to his inner most thoughts.

'Yet I won't be made to suffer your contempt when I have done nothing wrong. Thus, as clearly we have reached an impasse in our relationship that you seemingly feel cannot be breached nor mended I think it may be best you leave.'

The words hurt, but strangely she gained strength from saying them. He would not tell her what was wrong with him, he would not even look at her, and she had the welfare of her child and her kingdom to consider.

A consort who loathed her and his child was no use to Dalmasca or his family. She had made many sacrifices for her country and had also been very lucky, blessed in recent years with surprising happiness; that it was now coming to an end was simply something to be endured, and endure it she would.

He stood up, she watched him as he brushed off the seat of his trousers, examined his cuffs in unhurried fashion and stepped around her. Her heart squeezed closed and her mouth went dry, her thoughts tumbling together in shock. Was he truly leaving?

'I see how it is.' He purred close to her ear as he brushed gently by her and made for the Walk of Heroes. He turned back to her with a purely contemptuous sneer on his face.

'Now you have your precious dynast heir, you have had enough of me, hmm? Well I suppose what the blessed Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca wants, she must have.' He turned his back on her and set foot upon the Walk of Heroes.

Was he truly leaving? Ashe whirled on her heels almost unable to comprehend what was happening. She had spoken those cold, clipped words to elicit a response from him, to force him into some form of engagement with her. Instead, chillingly, she found herself having been masterfully played.

She had just granted him the excuse he needed to run away again.

Ashe moved with the speed and lethal grace she had not been able to muster since the baby became large inside her, and before she even knew her own mind, she had come up behind him, knotted one hand in the complicated ties and clasps of his vest and wrapped the crook of her other arm about his neck in a choke hold.

'You bastard! You snivelling coward; this is what you wanted!' She rose on tip-toe, resting her body weight against his back and for the first time since Vossler had trained her in combat her hands shook. Her vision blurred with tears.

'Are you trying to make me hate you?' It was not a question, nor quite strong enough to be a statement, the sudden realisation too ludicrous for her to readily except, even as she felt Balthier sigh tiredly.

'Not everything is about you, Highness; though I appreciate that might be hard for you to accept.'

He replied calmly raising his own hand to curl his fingers, still mottled with the burn scarring he had received aboard Bahamut, around her wrist that wrapped about his neck, pulling him down into an uncomfortable stoop.

He did not try to remove her arm; instead his fingers stroked her wrist almost affectionately. Ashe drew away from him, furious and deeply hurt both by the mocking dismissal in his tone and the inexplicable affection he showed her in his touch. The first token of affection he had shown her since his return.

He turned around to face her as she took three large steps away from the familiar looking man who had suddenly revealed himself to be an unpredictable stranger to her, one she neither knew or understood.

'Why?' She demanded fighting for breath in the hot sun beside the Oasis whose waters glittered like a liquid fire quilted with silver lightening. Bahamut's constant shadow making her feel small.

'Why do you do this to me? Is it hate? Do you hate me? What could possess you to act like this; have you run mad?'

Looking at him now she certainly thought he appeared touched by some eerie madness. Dressed as always with impeccable taste and precision in white shirt and tan vest, conservatively patterned, and yet his hair was in need of a trim, grown out enough to curl slightly against his forehead; he did not appear to have the inclination to either cut, nor style it off his brow, and his face was thinner, eyes sunken from sleepless nights.

'There you go again.' Balthier smiled crookedly at her, 'Has is it not occurred to you Ashe that perhaps my present mood has absolutely nothing to do with you?'

He shook his head and gracefully dropped down to recline nonchalantly, easefully, against the grassy slope rising from the shore.

Ashe did not know if she wanted to run from him or attack him once more. How could he be so calm, so blithely casual; was he trying to deliberately drive her away, inciting her anguish in the hopes of engendering her hatred by telling her how little she meant to him with a smile on his face?

'If I am not the cause of your foul mood, what is?' She asked carefully.

Truthfully she did not believe for a moment that whatever had come between them, whatever was so playing on his mind to drive him to such spite, was not related to her.

When he answered her it was with misdirection and evasion, that faint smirk on his face and eyes empty.

'You once ordered me, that night on the rocks on Balfonheim beach, never to be morose or less than my charming self while in your company, do you remember, Highness?'

He questioned calmly, suavely and almost amused; an urbanely gentle smile playing about his lips as he skilfully evaded her direct question.

Ashe licked her lips. She remembered the night he alluded to, the only other time, she realised, that she had ever seen him behave even close to the way he was behaving now. Desolate and melancholy, he had been drunk as a...well, as a pirate, for lack of a better metaphor, and standing, rifle to his shoulder, staring out to sea.

Something occurred to her then, 'Balthier are you drunk?'

In response to her incredulous accusation he barked in derisive, harsh laughter, eyes hard, 'No, Ashe. I am quite sober.'

'Are you sure?' Ashe frowned at him. She would prefer him to be drunk then at least the reason for his cruelty would be easily explicable and easily remedied. She would simply dunk his head in the Oasis until he sobered up.

Balthier gave her a droll, dark look, 'I think I would know, Highness.' He replied irritably.

Ashe was in a quandary. She needed Balthier to be his usual impervious, imperturbable self, now more than ever. He was the person she depended, the person whose loyalty was first and foremost her own, neither tempered nor diluted by loyalty to her office as Queen or his own ambition.

Balthier was not allowed to lose control. He had to be strong for the times when _she_ needed to lose control. She had thought he understood this. A man who spent his every waking moment pretending to be an idyll of fiction: _the leading man _was not allowed to indulge in his own doubts.

'Tell me what is wrong with you. If you are not intoxicated, then you must be sick, or suffering some form of trauma.' Ashe nibbled on her lips, bringing her fingers up to her mouth to rub her bottom lip anxiously.

Balthier pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned in annoyance, 'Bloody hell Ashe, one moment you are demanding I get out of your sight and now you wish to interrogate me. Make up your mind.'

'I am trying to understand what is wrong.' Ashe snapped back, stung by his words and his tone. 'I am trying to help.'

She hesitated standing a few feet away from him, part of her wanted to sit beside him, press her cheek to his shoulder, put her arms around him, the other wanted to beat him about the head until he told her what was the matter.

Bitterly she supposed those contradictory impulses were partly to blame for this situation. Violence and anguish had become an intrinsic part of life for her; she could not separate harshness from softness any longer.

Balthier snorted, returning to his former habit of deliberately not looking at her; instead he settled for glowering out across the glittering surface of the Oasis towards the verdant green shadows of Bahamut's shattered base.

'I have been tortured with more delicacy, Highness. If this is all the help you can offer I would sooner be without.'

Ashe tasted the cooper tang of blood as she bit down even harder on her bottom lip. His rejection stabbed straight to the root of her fears.

Almost involuntarily her hands pressed against her stomach. What sort of future did her baby have in store with a father who wanted nothing to do with his child and a mother who knew only anger and sharpness?

'I love you.' She finally said, pathetically.

She would not apologize for the baby, gods damn it, nor should she. Whatever was wrong with him was not her doing, she was sure of it, yet she felt wretched with guilt. How much happier would he have been had she left him to his life of purposeless criminality?

Balthier sighed and turned to face her, gesturing as he spoke for her to sit upon the grass beside him. 'I know, and I love you. I have already said this has nothing to do with you.'

Ashe moved towards him and knelt on the grass. She did not want to lose her temper, nor show any signs of weakness. She certainly wouldn't shed tears for him; however she was not about to let him evade the issue.

'Then I am to assume you are merely being a cruel and insensitive bastard because you wish to be?' She asked him tartly.

Balthier turned to face her, expression morphing into one of outright shock, then after a moment, his lips twitched. Abruptly he laughed.

'This is not a laughing matter, Balthier.' Ashe did not know whether to be outraged or relieved to see a brief return of his good humour. 'I was not making a joke.'

To her surprise Balthier leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, still looking as though he struggled to repress laughter.

'I know, _Princess. _Few other people would be so beautifully incapable of compassion as you. But I suppose you have a point. I have not been upholding our Balfonheim bargain well of late, have I?'

Ashe reached out to stroke the cheek she had scratched earlier, carefully, willing herself to keep hold of her impatience. Her need to know what was wrong and the huge frustrated ache inside her only increased as, with every word and deed, Balthier attempted to keep hiding his secrets from her.

'I don't care if you wish to be morose, Balthier, I merely wish to know why.' She muttered frustration making her sound petulant, though she meant her words sincerely.

Balthier sighed and shook his head, a dark abstraction rising in his eyes as he turned away from her again and looked out towards Bahamut once more. 'But I have no wish to tell you, Ashe. The telling of it does not alleviate the burden.'

Ashe frowned, 'You sound like Fran, Balthier.' She pointed out, the effort to hold on to her resolve not to shout, not stamp her foot and command him to speak honestly to her, making her words tart and sour.

She took a breath, looking at the dazzling sunlight dancing upon the water with eyes that did not see. 'Whatever it is cannot be worse than the way you have ignored me lately. It is eating away at you.'

'Better it eats at me than you, Highness.' Balthier said quietly, fingers playing with a flyaway tendril of her hair, brushing her shoulders. She turned to look at him sharply as he spoke quietly in a quenched and bloodless voice.

'I am ashamed of myself, Ashe. It is not a feeling I am used to. I pride myself on not wasting time on self-indulgences such as self-pity and doubt. I would sooner you didn't know. My pride would not survive the blow if you were ashamed of me too.'

Ashe could not think of a single thing to say as Balthier's gaze retreated to the safety of the Bahamut's high reaches where a gaggle of doves fluttered about the flat, open top of the fortress where Vayne Solidor had met his doom. She had never seen him look so defeated, so lacking in self-confidence.

His shoulders were sloped and his hands laced together around his one drawn up knee, as she watched he rested his chin upon that knee and still he did not look on her. It dawned on her finally that he sought to avoid her eyes, not because the sight of her disgusted him, but because he was ashamed of himself.

It was not a comforting realisation. What could have happened that this proud, most self-assured man could be so stricken, so utterly undone? She reached out to touch his shoulder and he jerked away.

'Ashe, no amount of yelling or sympathy will possess me to tell you.' He informed her flatly. 'If you wish me to go I shall go, but do not ask me to tell you. You do not want to know.'

'Don't tell me what I do and do not wish to know, Balthier!'

Ashe snapped back, suddenly angry because he was scaring her; what in the name of all the gods could he have done? The man was a former criminal. A thief, a master forger, a self-confessed black marketeer and extortionist; Ashe had not thought there existed a crime or misdemeanour in all Ivalice that could shake this man's high opinion of himself.

'Ashe, please...'

The words were out of his mouth and resting on the hot, summer air like a curse between them. For a moment it seemed to Ashe that the sun grew dark, the birds were stricken mute in mid song and all life held its breath. She had never heard him utter that word to her. He had never begged, nor pleaded with her for anything.

'_What did you do?_'

She all but screamed nails digging into his shirt sleeve at the shoulder, grip hard and unwavering, as she demanded an answer with her gaze that would not back down.

Pale faced they stared at each other, lips a bare inch apart. She watched Balthier's mask fall away and raw anguish, guilt and sorrow drown out all mirth, all cynicism, from his clouded eyes.

'I killed a child.' He shouted back at her.

The words seemed to echo in the quiet, solitary Oasis, whispering over the rippling waters and rising upwards into the nest of Bahamut's looming shadows.

Balthier launched himself to his feet and tore free of her grip on his sleeve. He paced away from her; constrained violence in every step, as he stalked the edge of the waters like a predator might stalk the bars of his cage.

'Because of my selfishness a little girl is dead. That is what I did.' He snarled.

Ashe could not breathe for a full handful of seconds as his words failed to register in his mind. She did not believe him.

'What happened?' Her words were firm, steady. Nothing in all Ivalice could force her to believe that Balthier would wilfully harm a child. Unconsciously her hands encircled her large and laden stomach.

Balthier looked down on her, expression remote, clearly seeing only what his mind tormented him with and not the beauty and tranquillity around him.

'I could have taken her with me. A little child like that should not have been left in Al-Cid's rebel camp. It would have been no hardship to take Alfayna with me. She cried out as we left and I ignored her.'

_Alfayna. _The name rang in Ashe's mind. The only time he had addressed the prospect of their child had been to suggest that name and afterward he had refused to be drawn on his reasons. Now Ashe found that the name was a revenant of some, poor, lost infant that Balthier felt responsible for. She was not sure how she felt about that or what to say to him.

Unfortunately her silence condemned her; she saw Balthier's gaze harden as he drew back from the open emotion of moments ago, misinterpreting her silence as condemnation. He turned away and started walking towards Rabanastre along the silent Walk of Heroes.

'The truth hurts, doesn't it, Highness? Lies are so much more enjoyable.'

'Balthier!'

He did not turn or stop, instead he carried on walking; head up and posture straight and proud.

Ashe struggled to her feet. A child had died; Balthier felt guilt for that death. This much was clear; she could even extrapolate why her own condition would only serve to heighten said feelings for Balthier but she did not understand why he felt ashamed.

He was not walking particularly fast and Ashe, moving as swiftly as she could carrying around, as she was, four or five pounds of baby inside her, managed to catch up to him by the first offerings plinth along the Walk. She latched her fingers into the bindings of his vest and forced him to a halt.

'If you are going to make a confession such as this Balthier, then finish it. Do not just walk away before I have opportunity to answer.' She snapped a trifle breathless.

'There are no answers.' He replied irritably. 'I do not like children, Ashe. I loathe children, and because of that I left a little girl alone and unprotected.'

He looked coldly down on her, reaching behind him to awkwardly try and pry her fingers from his clothing.

'That is the type of man you chose as father to your baby, Ashe. Do you see now why you should have left bloody well alone?'

Ashe only felt her anger intensify; he was deliberately feeding her half-truths and vicious fabrications, trying to hurt her so that she would not force him to face his own feelings. She would not have it.

'Did you shoot the child?' She demanded with all the blunt tactlessness at her disposal and felt a certain satisfaction when he could not control a flinch in shock.

'Of course I didn't bloody shoot her. I said I didn't like children, not that I liked to murder them.' He snapped back, clearly offended.

Ashe fixed him with a keen, sharp, haughty regard. She may have no capacity for compassion and gentleness but there were some tricks she could employ.

'Did you engineer for the child to be killed? Did you leave knowing that doing so would result in this infant's death?' She rapped out in her most imperious and unforgiving voice.

Balthier looked caught between incredulity that she would even ask him such and anger. Ashe bit the inside of her mouth and kept her steely composure. It was not often that she won an argument of this sort, but then, it was not often that Balthier wallowed so blatantly in guilt.

'Of course not.' He glared at her, 'Ashe...'

Ashe changed her grip from his back to latch her fingers into the white bib at the neck of his vest, dragging his face down towards her for she was not about to over-balance herself by standing on tip-toe.

'Then you did not kill that child Balthier. You made a mistake and something awful happened, but you did not kill that child.' She told him firmly trying to drive that conviction into his mind as she locked her gaze with his.

'Perhaps I didn't,' Balthier conceded, eyes furtively sliding away from her. 'It does not matter. What I did after was bad enough.'

He all but whispered then she watched as his mask of blithe indifference snapped back into place and he deftly peeled her fingers from his vest, before turning on his heel.

'Thank you for the uplifting pep talk, Highness, I am feeling quite chipper now.'

He called back to her blithely and began walking swiftly away from her passing the names of Dalmasca's fallen without sparing them a glance. He kept his pace brisk and his strides long deliberately so that Ashe had no hope of catching up with him.

'Balthier...we are not finished.' She called after him, barely managing to prevent herself from yelling amid the etched syllables of the honoured dead.

Pivoting on his heel, Balthier turned to face her, a good many yards ahead of her, smiling crookedly. 'Oh, yes we are Highness. No need to worry though, I am quite through being morose. No need to trouble yourself on my account any longer.'

Ashe had heard him use the very same tone of voice aboard the Bahamut, as she was screaming down the communication console to him aboard the Strahl and had watched the Bahamut collapse into the sands. His words were light as air and just as meaningless.

Watching him walk confidently and jauntily away, pretence in every step, Ashe knew that Bahamut had long since collapsed to the hard and unforgiving ground, but Balthier had yet to finish falling and when he did, imminently, she did not think she would be able to pick up the pieces.

She did not think he would even let her try.


	12. Chapter 12

**Rabanastre; The Palace**

_A/N: …..here it comes the __**big reveal**__….though possibly it won't be that much of a surprise to you all. _

* * *

'I am perfectly fine.' Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca reiterated for the benefit of the loitering horde of physicians, white mages and well-meaning rubber-neckers that clustered about her bedside. Her tone was sharp enough to cut glass.

Balthier, who was not so foolhardy as to admit to any sympathy with the advice and suggestions the anxious physicians made of their irritable monarch, instead lounged in the window seat of the bed chamber watching all with an impassive eye.

One hour and seven minutes ago Ashe had taken it upon herself to collapse in the middle of the monthly mercantile guilds meeting and since then rumour and pandemonium had run rampant throughout the Palace.

All manner of outlandish tales abounded that the Queen had miscarried of her child; that she had gone into premature labour; that she had survived yet another Rozzarian attempt to take her life.

Ashe, physically manhandled into her bed by a brace of medics and Balthier himself, (summoned from his maintenance of the Strahl to weather his wife's displeasure and risk a hernia carrying her and her 'bulk'), was now insisting she be allowed up to prove to the rest of her palace staff and the city at large that she was perfectly well. The negotiations were heated and ongoing.

Balthier was by no means sure Ashe was perfectly fine. She was not the sort of woman who habitually keeled over unconscious at the mention of an increase in the price of lamb chops (which, quite amusingly, had become a favourite Rabanastran delicacy since his inheritance of the Atholl sheep had become partially owned by the Dalmascan crown, at least while said item of apparel resided upon Ashe's head.)

However Balthier would not be himself if he demonstrated too much concern. Despite this the situation in the bed chamber was reaching critical point. Balthier had no doubt that in moments Ashe would start laying into the horde of white gowned physicians with her dagger. This in itself would be no great loss in Balthier's opinion, but it would not do Ashe's blood pressure any good at all.

'Perhaps some form of daybed?' He broke into the rapidly degenerating conversation with a drolly quirked eyebrow as he rose from the window and sauntered over to Ashe's side.

'A daybed?' Ashe asked him acidly, clearly less than enamoured of the suggestion.

Left to her own devices Ashe would no doubt be charging through trade negotiations, taking six mile round trips to the Oasis in the baking desert sun and practicing her swordmanship until the very moment the baby dropped.

Balthier decided to ignore her in favour of the grave faced, vaguely self-important physicians.

'The Queen cannot simply discharge her responsibilities and enter a protracted period of confinement, however, perhaps if a daybed of some description was prepared, or a portable litter, it would ensure that her Majesty had a means to rest if feeling fatigued but still continue her duties to the realm?'

Balthier kept his smile silky and bland as he looked on the serried ranks of harried physicians. He was always excessively careful to address Ashe by her title and pay deference to her rank around court officials; partly to avoid ruffling the feathers of his detractors and partly because it amused him.

'A daybed is a reasonable suggestion, Your Highness.' One of the physicians suggested. Balthier had no idea what the man's name was and had no inclination to find out.

Ashe narrowed her eyes fiercely at Balthier and he maintained his blandly helpful façade with difficulty. 'I am not travelling in a litter.' She hissed venomously.

Balthier smiled blindingly down on her, thoroughly enjoying himself at her expense. Considering the last two months it had been a dreadfully long time since he had had cause for simple mischief and Ashe was a favourite subject of his.

'Now, now, Majesty, you must think of the baby.'

Ashe looked ready to spit nails at him. she was sat up in her bed, propped up against a fluffy mountain of pillows; the bed sheets had been dragged up almost to her neck by the physicians who were worried about fluctuating temperature and a sudden loss of heat from the limbs (Balthier had struggled to keep his peace at this statement, Rabanastre was blisteringly hot all times of the year, and the Rains were late. Ashe would have to work exceedingly hard to catch a chill.)

'Your husband is right, Your Highness. You have been over-exerting yourself. As you enter the final months of your pregnancy you needs must retire from public life.' The same physician as before simpered in a decidedly condescending manner. Both Balthier and Ashe turned to frown on him.

Ashe opened her mouth and Balthier recognised the squint of her brow and the tension in her neck as an indication that she was about to say something monstrously impolitic, and as much as he could do with the entertainment, he knew that Ashe could not afford to alienate the medical professionals of Dalmasca when she had scant few months before the birth.

'It is not possible for your liege and Queen to simply retire from public life sir, especially not at this time.' Balthier interceded, voice sharp but not nearly so sharp as Ashe herself would have been.

Ashe raised an appraising eyebrow but did not interrupt; for the moment she seemed more interested in seeing where he was going with this than in fighting him, which while certainly novel, was greatly appreciated.

'You would serve your sovereign best by suggesting remedies and palliatives that will maintain her majesty's stamina during the long hot days, instead of impositioning her Highness with infeasible demands.'

There was a moment's startled silence as the motley gaggle of physicians and adherents gathered themselves in shock, clearly unsure how to react to being both rebuked and commanded by a man who was nominally king consort but who had never bothered to act the part previously. Ashe for her part did not bother to hide her rather satisfied smirk.

In short order the affronted quacks and self-important medics all but fell over themselves to prescribe a cornucopia of preventatives and remedies for anaemia as well as any number of dubious medicines to control her Highness' rampaging blood pressure.

Balthier, standing on his not inconsiderable dignity, while biting his lip against laughter, escorted the gentlemen out and let the worried little Moogle secretary know that the Queen was in hale and hearty spirits, if perhaps a little tired, and please would he ensure this news was disseminated to all relevant parties.

'You are in a peculiar mood today, pirate.'

Ashe looked at him narrowly, head cocked to the side and looking quite peculiar herself in doing so. She had been watching him most oddly since their, admittedly fraught, conversation by the Oasis. Balthier had the uncomfortable suspicion she knew more than he wished her to know.

Doing as he was wont to do when faced with variables he could not control and the prospect of revealing uncomfortable truths, Balthier blithely and deliberately ignored all warnings and lingering depression. He smiled crookedly.

'I have never liked doctors.' He conceded. 'But enough of me, Highness, how are you?' He spoke jovially to hide genuine worry.

Being summoned by a frightened Page to scoop the Queen up from the floor of her audience chamber had not been a pleasurable experience. She had been listless and disorientated in his arms, eyes worryingly unfocused. He knew that the memory of that moment would linger with him for some time.

Ashe seemed to be weighing up whether or not to answer the question seriously as he perched himself at the head of the bed beside her.

'A daybed, Balthier?' She finally asked him caustically, clearly wishing to evade answering his query over her health, which suggested she was feeling less than well.

'Would you have me loll around in my undergarments being fanned by a gaggle of male attendants who hand feed me, while I meet with visiting diplomats?'

Balthier chuckled, 'An arresting notion, Highness. I doubt any visiting envoys would mind overmuch.'

Ashe reached out and cuffed him around the head, irritably. 'I look like a particularly bloated Flan. If I do as you are suggesting I will likely scare off all visitors.'

Smiling and feeling oddly whimsical, despite (or possibly because) of only having managed some eight hours intermittent and troubled sleep in the last fifty hours, Balthier dropped a kiss to the top of Ashe's head.

'And thus your gruelling schedule of public engagements is affectively curtailed affording ample opportunity for you to rest.' He pointed out mischievously. Ashe rolled her eyes in a very un-regal display of indulgent annoyance.

They lapsed into a companionable silence then; Ashe vainly trying to hide her drooping eyelids and stifle yawns as she sunk more deeply into the pillows. Balthier for his part began to feel more than a touch drowsy.

Sleep had been fleeting of late. His conscience, an entity that seemed to have been carved from his sub-conscious merely to torment him, had made sure that any rest he gained was less than peaceful.

Balthier yawned, stretched and made himself more comfortable on the bed. Ashe watched him patiently before taking the opportunity of his new position to drop her head onto his shoulder. Absently she stroked her fingers down the embroidered patterning adorning his fitted white shirt.

'This is new.' She pointed out drowsily.

'Not particularly.' He replied off-handedly.

Ashe delighted in teasing him for what she referred to as his _peacock tendencies_ when it came to his manner of dress. He usually retorted that he was hoping to lead by example and educate the native men of Dalmasca in how to wear (and keep fastened) a shirt. Today he did not have the energy.

'Balthier, about Rozzaria…' Ashe began cautiously around another stifled yawn; she nestled more comfortably against his side as he absently stroked her hair from her face.

'Go to sleep, Ashe.' He murmured under his breath. He had said far more than he should about Rozzaria already.

Ashe lifted her head from his chest. 'I won't be put off so easily. Even uncle Halim has said you are being strangely ambivalent regarding the situation. Vaan seems to think you are also acting strangely.'

'And _Captain Ratsbane_ is a known expert on all manner of strangeness.'

Balthier scoffed, aware that both he and Ashe were precariously balanced on the precipice of either a deep, exhausted slumber, or another blazing row. Considering his recent nocturnal experiences he honestly did not know which outcome he would prefer.

'You are evading the issue.' Ashe muttered, though she appeared more interested in petty the patterning on his shirt than berating him.

Small mercies such as this were always double-edged swords in his back, however. The more he danced and parried and avoided the truth, the harder it would hit him when it came to the fore.

'I know, Highness, it is what I do.' Balthier let his sore, aching eyes close, vaguely hoping that Ashe would leave him be if he lost consciousness.

'…_..Dis is gone on long enough. Too many dead. I shall go to my brother…..' _

Balthier's eyes popped open and he shifted uncomfortably. Nestled against his side Ashe was already in that state of near comatose sleep that he found himself envying her for right then.

He had the sense that time had passed; enough time for him to almost fall prey to his conscience and to his memory. His muscles twitched with the impulse to leap up and escape; take to the skies in the Strahl and lose himself in the furthest horizon.

Twice in his life Balthier, who almost believed he was what he claimed to be, free and without doubt, had suffered this same sense of constant, encroaching panic.

Both times before he had realised that a fundamental change needed to be enacted or else……well……almost instinctively Balthier swerved his thoughts away from the deep waters he never allowed himself to acknowledge existed inside his mind.

Sadly the undertow took him under anyway. Balthier, Ashe's warm presence solid and secure against his side, felt himself slide and fall into the depths of unconsciousness, neither in memory nor dream, but somewhere trapped in-between.

_It had been swift. The cannon ball had blasted through the side of the wagon and reduced it to tinder wood in an instance. She had not suffered. She had not suffered, little Alfayna, she had simply died; died without even having the opportunity to live. Died hiding under a pile of dirty clothing in a wagon as men and women fought and slaughtered each other all around her._

_What was suffering to that? Balthier had almost choked on bitter laughter as he dug the little body out from the litter of wood shards, struggling with the half wagon wheel that had all but crushed her into the oil slicked sands. _

_It was not possible to bury the dead in the desert. Scavengers would sniff out the blood and dig up the carcasses. So they built a huge bonfire and stacked the bodies upon the kindling. He watched her burn and thought to use his handkerchief against the stench until he remembered that she still had it. _

Again Balthier struggled against the tide; he did not want to face the unpalatable truth. He knew what he had done. He would accept the consequences when he could no longer out run them, but he would not do so willingly.

It had ever been his way. Run, fly and never look back.

Thus Balthier had carried his past on his back and kept his steps fast and swift. One day he would run out of rope with which to fashion his noose and run out of open space to lose himself in. He did not want today to be that day.

Not when he had finally found a comfortable nest to settle in; even if on occasion he questioned what had possessed him to marry a queen. His eyelids drooped again and almost unconsciously he rolled on his side and gathered his little embryonic dynasty into his arms.

The body slept and the mind meandered through the labyrinthine corridors of a convoluted life story filled with unacknowledged by keenly felt mistakes.

_When the boy behind the man who called himself Balthier was somewhere between sixteen and seventeen he had realised quite abruptly that life had boiled down to two choices; two avenues of escape from an existence that had become a cage and a life that he did not control. Ffamran had realised he could die in truth or merely in artifice._

_He had chosen the artifice. It proved to be the more permanent death. _

_When 'Balthier' (and let it not be discussed how that name came about; only a woman would come up with such a name and only a woman with a sadistic sense of humour would give it to him) had been somewhere on the dying edge of his adolescence and a thoroughly jaded libertine well on his way to becoming a truly wretched villain (the pirate had been easy, the leading man had yet to be conceived of) he had again recognised his life had reached a crossroads. _

_He could stay as he was or he could once more undergo a self imposed metamorphosis. _

That man-child had chosen change; flight and escape once more and come out of this secondary transition with a new reason for being (the leading man; a snide joke against all those who had tried to control him, which he now feared had been turned on him) and a partner who provided an anchor to his flights of fancy and proved to be a fine friend fore evermore.

At twenty-seven Balthier, in a moment of madness, (he always knew he had it in him. Son of Cid; it was in his blood) had destroyed everything he had worked for.

The artifice collapsed and the abyss looked back.

'_Dis is gone on long enough. Too many dead. I shall go to my brother.'_

_Balthier had registered these words only distantly in his mind. Al-Cid Margrace, soaked in sweat from the desert heat and the ashes of the pyre, had looked out over the ruin of the rebel camp. _

'_My surrender will accord you an' de people chance to flee. My life is not worth dis debt in blood.' _

_Balthier had not truly countenanced his own actions. In his head he heard Ashe demanding he bring Al-Cid Margrace to her alive and well; Ashe who might very well be dead, her city nought but smoke and embers. He heard Al-Cid's repeated assertions that he was a man of peace……'why I wear de yellow'….the stench of death scored his nostrils and permeated his very being. _

……_.'My surrender…' Al-Cid's words jarred in Balthier's consciousness. A catalyst to a reaction he would neither be able to explain nor justify afterwards. The first hard blow to Al-Cid's unshaven, dark, jaw had come as a shock to them both. _

_The second, third, fourth and so on blows rained down in such quick succession that Balthier did not even feel his knuckles split._

_He latched fingers around Al-Cid's filthy collar and hauled the man upward, wondering in abstract manner how the man came to be curled on the rocky, sand strewn ground in the first place._

_It did not matter over much. 'You have no right to surrender.' _

_The words had been spat into a face already smashed and running with blood. Al-Cid's dark eyes stared up at him in naked shock from a mask of blood. It was not nearly enough, however, to sate the rage inside Balthier. _

'_You have no right to make yourself a martyr. You had your chance to give in. You could have run.' _

_Words failed him. His favoured weapon, his silver tongue, proved ineffective compared to the elegant downward sweeping arc of his rifle, long since out of shot, as it came down again and again upon yielding flesh. _

_The co-ordinated snapping kicks of his booted feet to soft under-belly, digging for ribs and soft tissue, possessed their own poetry. It was mindless savagery made into an art form. It was hatred that was larger than the two men, victim and aggressor, caught in its throes._

_It was not about the dead still burning. It was not about the loathing Balthier felt towards men who 'lived for their beliefs' as if such things held more weight than the everyday realities of the living breathing people who died for those abstract ideals they were not privileged to understand. _

_Balthier was a man who had lived perfectly well believing in nothing more than his own whims and impulses. _

_He took what he wanted and accepted those who did the same. He enjoyed grandiose illusions as the conceits of a bored mind but knew that history would be written by the victors and he would be long dead in any affect. He did not hope for vindication. He did not believe any ideal was worth dying for, nor killing for. _

_But it was not about that, it was not about him, or Al-Cid. This was about the abyss. This was about the void that existed where once a little girl had drawn breath. This was about being alive when a three year old child was no more than burned meat on a fire. This was about the immensity that was the death of a child. _

_This was all about two men who lived when maybe they had no real right too. Two men who had yet to pay the piper for lives that had been, in the final reckoning, charmed and privileged. _

_This was about one man realising that not only did he live in a vicious age but that he actually cared, which was far worse than merely knowing he lived in cruel times._

_This was an ode and a penance paid to destruction and with every blow he rained down upon a man who did not deserve it the leading man destroyed himself because he had so utterly failed. He had failed himself. He had failed the child._

_Balthier realised, as Fran struck him across the back of the head because there was no other means of stopping his ferocious assault, that he was as bad as the loathed man bleeding at his feet; because he too had believed in something immaterial. _

_Balthier had believed in himself. The joke had become a creed and the lie that was the leading man had been his doctrine. He had failed in his own beleifs. Now he was truly without anything to believe in._

'_You will live Al-Cid Margrace because _they do not_ and you will bloody well suffer for it, you insufferable, pompous bastard. We all will. You could have given in. You could have run. You chose this. Pay for it.' _

_Balthier did not add, as he tore himself (literally, Fran's claws could slice iron) from his partner's grip, that Al-Cid needed to suffer failure because Balthier would not be condemned to it alone. _

_In that moment, in the phosphorous orange shadow of the funerary pyre, sparks flying in the desert gales lashing his skin and spitting sand in his eyes like curses from the dead, Balthier feared that his wife was dead (and his last words to her had been fatuous and cruel) his unborn child would never see the light of day (the child he didn't want because he feared failing his offspring as he had failed his father) and now the man he was supposed to rescue wanted to throw his life away. _

_Rage did not suffice; the abyss beckoned and Balthier almost welcomed it. _

_Fran had knocked him senseless with the blood-stained butt of his own rifle. It wasn't the abyss he had been expecting but it had served the purpose well enough._

Eyes wide open in the present Balthier looked on the ash blonde head of the Queen of Dalmasca and thought about crossroads and choices and failure. He could run, he could hide, he could even wallow in a conscience he appeared to have contracted like the Ozmone sweating sickness.

Balthier did none of those things.

Instead he lay in Ashe's huge four poster bed, aware of the way she had curled her fingers around his upper arm in sleep, as if afraid he would attempt to make a break for it (she did know him well) and realised that for all his multitude of sins, his failures great and small, in the wavering sunlight streaming through the curtains, the drowsy warmth of idling in bed with his wife; he really did not want to run.

Balthier, in all his self-aggrandising, conceited glory, was more than ready to forgive himself. Self-loathing was far too trite and maudlin for a man of his calibre.

He brushed his lips against Ashe's forehead and decided that history could judge him as it saw fit; the dead could rail against his failings (and so they should) but in the here and now, Balthier was not ready to concede the field.

Ashe stirred in his arms and opened her eyes, moving closer to him, the ever-present bulge edging ever closer also, as she sought to bridge the gap between them.

'What are you thinking about?' She mumbled frowning sleepily at the intently serious expression Balthier did not know had taken up residence upon his features.

'The relative merits and subsequent punishments of beating Al-Cid Margrace to a bloody pulp, Highness, and you?' The words were out before he realised he was planning on saying them.

Ashe blinked, frowned then blinked again. 'Food.' She said after a moment, stopping to yawn. 'I'm hungry.' And then, fully waking, she frowned. 'Beating _who_ to a bloody pulp?'

Balthier smirked (and this time it didn't feel like a grimace) and detached himself from her arms before getting off the bed.

'I shall find you food. The army regiment you are incubating in your womb, Highness, must not go hungry, after all.'

'Balthier? What did you mean about beating Al-Cid…?'

But he was already gone from the chamber as Ashe struggled into a sitting position. He walked with a certain confident spring in his step as he went to the palace kitchens to inform the benighted palace chef that the Queen required yet more sustenance.

Once upon a time the boy that Balthier used to be had run away instead of facing his father and his father's monstrous ambitions; that choice (a bad one) he would simply have to live with.

Similarly he would have to live with the fact that he had developed a violent hatred for certain foppish Rozzarians that rivalled Fran's aversion to Mist; not to mention the unfortunate political ramifications that might result from pummelling Al-Cid Margrace to near death with the butt of a rifle.

Balthier may even have to apologise to the insufferable pacifist fop; the thought was decidedly unedifying, but probably the least he deserved for such uncivilised behaviour.

As for the grovelling he would be forced to undertake to regain Fran's favour….well, some things did not bare contemplating. Balthier's smile grew as he felt like a man waking from a long, dark dream and becoming himself again.

Let the morose Balthier die a death right here and now. He had too much to occupy his mind without such indulgences as self-pity and guilt.

After all, Balthier had to accept (and this would be no easy feat) that in three or four months (he probably ought to find out Ashe's precise due date, it did not reflect well on him that he did not know how far along his wife was in her pregnancy) he would have to acknowledge responsibility for a child that actually_ belonged_ to him.

For a moment the memory of burning meat and a limp, chubby little hand still holding a broken bracelet, assaulted him as he strode into the steaming kitchens, alive with hustle and bustle. He rocked to a halt.

The abyss looked up at him from the deep waters of his soul where the name Alfayna still echoed with the cadence of guilty association and always would. Balthier looked back boldly for the first time in his life and the abyss retreated.

It was highly possible (probable in fact) that he would not make a good father (he could not fathom that a child would be any less irritating for being of his blood; nor was he likely to have any more patience with a child that was his than one that was not) but ultimately that choice was not his to make.

He was going to be a father and his resurrected pride refused to acknowledge failure before he had even begun.

He still had time; time to face his fears and not run from them (which would make a novel change). He could make another transition, but this time, he could change within instead of simply exchanging the scenery. For the first time in his life he could actually try; he would try.

Of course, Balthier conceded with a certain dark humour, if all else failed between him and the unborn infant, there was always the prospect of patricide. It had worked fairly well in resolving father and child conflicts in the Bunansa family tree in the past, all things considered.

Whistling through his teeth the resurgent Balthier went about his business; not quite the man he had been nor would he ever be (trying to kill a man with one's bare hands leaves indelible impression on the soul) but perhaps he had finally taken a step towards being the _better man_.

Or possibly not; in any case Balthier would see this through. It would be an interesting diversion, this fatherhood, before inevitable death, if nothing else.

It occurred to him that he was really hoping for a girl.

He had always related better to the females of the species (any species) in any respect and the prospect of Ashe giving birth to an infant form of Vaan (which was the model Balthier used for the typical Dalmascan male) was too monstrous to contemplate. Infanticide would be a mercy in that scenario.

No, he realised, he wanted a girl and he would find a well-qualified Moogle nanny, (he had had one and loved Nanny Penpo with a passion in his infancy and she had set him up well in life.)

He would also need to find a Bhujerban tutor (The Dalmascan education system was a disgrace and doubtless the people would not appreciate the next Dalamscan monarch receiving an Archadian education) and, here was a thought, he would have to discuss with Nono how to infant-proof the Strahl.

Yes, if he concentrated on the details he could completely ignore the fact that the mere thought of fatherhood made his blood run cold. If he played the part correctly no-one need ever know. It was simply a matter of artifice, just like everything else in his life.

Artifice was everything. He would simply fake it. Maybe if he played the part of doting father well enough it might even become the truth?

* * *

_A/N: ….(sigh)….it's one step forward two steps back for our boy Balthier isn't it? Next up: Penelo of the people. _


	13. Chapter 13

**An Archadian Interlude Part 3**

_A/N: This chapter actually gives these interludes a plot; some of Penelo's actions might seem OOC but frankly Square Enix didn't really give Penelo much of a character, which, if nothing else, allows for growth. _

_P.S: Larsa does not appear in this interlude….which is odd, but there you go._

* * *

The first time Penelo had ever seen the open sewer drain that was Old Archades had been when she was the pigtailed hanger-on following Ashe on her quest to save Dalmasca.

She had wondered out loud why anyone would call somewhere such a miserable name, even if it was true. It had just seemed to make the whole thing worse; almost like they were too beaten to even dream of something better.

Penelo remembered how surprised she'd been when Balthier had actually heard her mutterings and decided to answer her with a bitter, short laugh and a peculiarly serious, but cryptic, response.

'Don't be so sure.' He had answered her flippantly waving a hand at the broken down buildings and broken down people slumped in the alley around them. She remembered how utterly without humour his eyes had been; how he hadn't smirked at all when he spoke to her.

'They know that they are all gutter scum and bottom feeders down here, beneath the notice of the bright, red empire above. To call this alley anything else would be tantamount to an act of denial, or shame, and they are not ashamed. The people of Old Archades are only called Vulgars by the Gentry. _They_ have a different name for themselves.'

Penelo had not understood him then. She had not understood him when she returned any number of times to Archades since they had won the war.

Now, standing in the Alley of Muted Sighs watching the organised queue of people waiting to enter the renovated old building housing a physician's clinic she thought she finally understood.

Here she was standing in the thin Archadian summer sun, colder and less warming than the Rabanastran sun, standing beside Gerty on her right and Jules on her left. Penelo thought that Balthier had been right; the Vulgar's of Old Archades were not ashamed. They weren't even beaten.

'Why are we here?'

Penelo thought it was high time she should say something. She had been polite and followed Gerty out of the Imperial Palace when the secret Streetear and chamber maid had asked her too (Penelo knew she owed Gerty and her brother; without them Balthier might not have gotten out of Rozzaria), but she still thought it was fair to at least ask why they were standing across the street watching people enter a clinic.

Jules, leaning against the dirty wall of one of the few broken down buildings Larsa's renovation teams had not begun work on, raised his cigarillo to his mouth and sucked in a big mouthful of the horrible smoke.

'This is yer education. Yer got t'learn.' He told her smirking around a wave of bluish smoke that rolled out of his mouth and nose.

Penelo, feeling conspicuous in her Rabanstran pink silks and gauzy lace, frowned at him in the brisk summer breeze, laden with the stink from the bloated, polluted and congested river. 'Education? What do you mean?'

'Oh don't mind 'im, miss, e's just tryin' t'be all bloody _mysterious_.' Gerty rolled her eyes contemptuously at her brother, 'Bloody poncy git.' She added under her breath. Jules retaliated by blowing a perfect rippling blue smoke ring in her face.

Penelo, who had grown used to the company of the streetear twins (as she had named them) since returning from Balfonheim some weeks ago simply waited a little impatiently while they argued between themselves while she watched the little trickle of people outside the white-washed clinic.

As Penelo watched and the two Archadians argued over how they were going to try and manipulate Penelo next, (naïve she probably was, Penelo knew, but she wasn't stupid. She knew when she was being used and was only playing along because so far Gerty and Jules had been nothing but helpful) an elderly man left the clinic and started walking slowly towards the three of them.

The man was dressed in the drab, frayed clothing common among the Vulgar's; an old frock coat with missing buttons and worn brown trousers. The man was also leaning heavily on a cane as he walked.

'Hey, someone's coming.' She cleared her throat to get the attention of the arguing streetears.

'Oi, what's 'e doin coming out 'ere?' Jules demanded throwing down his cigarillo butt and stamping on it angrily. Gerty straightened up from her angry hunch and put a hand to her limp, slightly greasy dark hair.

'Shut up an' be polite, yer ruddy eejit.' She snapped under her breath. It seemed to Penelo, as the old man with the thick white beard and ruddy cheeks ambled slowly towards them, that the two streetears actually stood to attention.

'What-hoo, what-hoo, Julian, Gertrude; nice weather today, hmm?' The old man, with the leather patches on his sleeves, smiled warmly, his weathered face creasing like worn velum as he did so. Penelo was instantly reminded of her own grand-daddy (long dead). The man had such a friendly way of speaking.

'Aight, Doctor Ned.' Jules replied actually nodding his head and shuffling his feet a little in a show of what looked like real respect. Gerty stepped forward and hugged the older man, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

'It's good t'see yer Doctor Ned.'

Penelo, mightily curious, waited for the old man to turn towards her, 'Hello, there.' He greeted her warmly, smiling with so much happy greeting that Penelo felt her own lips pull up in a smile too. 'You must be Penelo? I've heard a lot about you young lady, but nobody told me you were such a pretty young woman, hmmm.'

Despite the fact that the man was seventy if he was a day, and middling fair towards being quite fat, something about his compliment made Penelo blush furiously to the very tips of her hair.

'…..thank you.' She stuttered clumsily taking the liver splotched and blue vein scored hand the old man held out to her in greeting. His grip was surprisingly strong and firm for all that he was old. Penelo also thought that he sounded more like one of the wealthy Ardent's or Gentry Archadian's than a native of Old Archades.

The old man was nodding, his dark, hooded eyes, bright and sharp like a bird's. 'And I'm Nhadley Finneas Qudoran.'

He said letting go of her hand and performing a very proper Archadian bow, before rising stiffly and chuckling, 'Oh, dear me, best not do that again……these old bones won't take it. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, Nhadley's the name, miss, but most call me Doctor Ned.'

Penelo smiled, 'It's nice to meet you Doctor Ned.'

In truth she was a little confused about the whole thing and not sure how to take being introduced to another Archadian 'Doctor'. The last one had been a lunatic and this man, as friendly as he seemed, was decidedly odd, but then, in Penelo's opinion, most Archadian's were.

Doctor Ned had turned his attentions to the two streetear's, 'I shall wager you two scallywags have yet to tell the young lady about our request, hmm?'

Gerty sighed and nodded her head in agreement and apology, Jules was less apologetic. 'Show an' tell, Doctor Ned. She's got t'see fer herself why we askin' fer her 'elp or she'll say no.'

Penelo stepped closer and folded her arms across her chest, 'Say no to what? I'm not going to agree to anything if you talk about me as if I'm not here.'

Jules gave her a leering sideways glance, 'Who says we're talking 'bout yer?'

Penelo blinked, taken aback, then refolded her arms and thrust up her chin to meet the Streetear's dark, laughing eyes.

'Well, who else would you be scheming about? If it is another 'young lady' then you aren't a very good Streetear. You should only manipulate one person at a time. It's just politeness.'

For a moment Jules, Gerty and the kindly Doctor Ned all just stared blankly at her under the watery Archadian sun. Then Jules grinned and, to Penelo's less than delighted surprise, he slung an arm around her shoulders in a loose and unwelcome hug.

'See?' He grinned, 'She might look like a bit of Dalmascan fluff but she's got balls, this one.'

'What?'

Penelo jerked away from Jules not sure whether to laugh or be insulted. So instead she stamped on his foot. Jules swore and Gerty laughed. The old man, leaning on his cane, smiled benevolently at them all.

'Why don't we all go inside my clinic?' He suggested eyes bright and clear. 'I've got tea and biscuits.' He added.

Entering the clinic, housed in the two storey flat roofed old building encased in scaffolding, its walls freshly white washed, Penelo blinked in the sudden gloom. As her eyes adjusted to the lack of light her ears picked up the sounds of children playing somewhere further back in the house.

'Come through into the drawing room. Gerty, be a dear and put the kettle on, love.'

Doctor Ned led the way passed a small surgery, with battered chairs and a scratched examination bed set aside behind a curtailed partition that divided 'waiting room' from 'examination room' and through a small store room filled with potion bottles and other forms of medicine. Finally they entered a tiny, but strangely cosy, sitting room.

The walls were covered in an ugly, heavily embossed mossy green velvet wall paper and the threadbare green carpet was spongy in places and sticky with old stains. An odd syrupy sweet medicinal smell hung heavy in the windowless room.

'Sit down, sit down.' Doctor Ned collapsed into a battered old chair, the brocade upholstery faded and torn.

Penelo looked around the room taking in the children's drawings covering one whole wall of the little room, the collection of puzzle pieces scattering one corner of the floor next to a old packing crate being used to store an assortment of rag dolls; from somewhere on the upper floor of the house Penelo once again heard children playing.

All at once the whole house reminded her of being home. Home in Low Town during the occupation when she and Vaan lived in a house crammed to the rafters with sixteen other people.

It had been cramped, noisy and smelly but there had been a sense of family and security in being together. No one was happy, exactly, but they were at least with people who looked out for them, all in the same boat.

It was strange, Penelo had never thought to feel something like that again, especially not in Archades, and especially not when she suddenly felt like an intruder, an invader, in her fine clothes and nice shoes.

'Ere we are. Got squashed fly biscuits and Mum's brew tea.' Gerty bustled into the room carrying a tea tray.

Penelo bit the inside of her lip but kept her smile in place (squashed fly biscuits?) Jules, slouched next to her on the lumpy sofa with the torn cushions, smirked at her in a loose lipped way.

'They're raisins, we just calls 'em squashed flies 'cause they look like 'em.'

'Oh, well thanks.' Penelo took one of the raison biscuits and a cup of thick, dark tea in a chipped, yellow stained, white cup. It was almost like being home again, back when she was just Penelo the orphan shop girl who shared a patch of floor with Vaan the cutpurse.

'Do you live here?' Penelo asked Jules politely as Gerty served tea to Doctor Ned.

Jules, slurping his tea, while dunking a biscuit into it at the same time, looked at her briefly. 'Used to. That's what Doctor Ned does. 'E takes in all the street kids; makes 'em better if they're sick and gives 'em somewhere t'sleep nights. It gets ruddy cold down in the slums in winter.'

Penelo blinked and looked swiftly over at the gentle old man chatting with Gerty across the tiny room.

'He must have been here a long time,' Penelo said quietly, 'I mean, if he took you in.' she added hastily. Jules was an adult, she thought he was maybe around Balthier's age, he hadn't been a child for many years.

'Twenty years, my dear.'

Penelo jumped as Doctor Ned answered her question with a smile around the rim of his cup. 'Twenty years this autumn, I believe, though at my age the mind plays tricks. All time does is slip away from me.' He chuckled lazily.

Penelo nibbled her biscuit, 'But before that, you were an ardent, weren't you? You lived up in the city.'

Penelo had spent long enough in Archades to learn to recognise the different accents and manners of the different types of Archadians.

Doctor Ned looked startled then he chuckled and nodded his head, neatly dipping the end of his 'squashed fly' biscuit into his cup.

'Yes, yes, for forty eight years I scurried about Nilbasse trying to buy my way into Highgarden Terrace, just like all those other vain fools. I was a doctor of medicine, a physician trained by the best.'

Penelo took a sip of her horrible tea, used to swallowing down the foulest of food and drink back in the days of the occupation, when she never knew where the next meal would come from.

'But then…how...?' She trailed off when she realised it might not be polite to ask him how he ended up in the slums. Doctor Ned grinned.

'It was the Vulgar Uprising of, hmmm, what year would it have been? Ahh, well, regardless. When I saw those poor, emaciated men being marched off to execution after they failed to besiege the Palace, saw all those malnourished children in the slums by the river, well it changed me.'

Doctor Ned's old hands trembled as they cradled his cup, bright eyes not so bright as a sadness fell upon the room. Jules shook his head and savagely dunked his soggy biscuit into his tea cup only for the water logged biscuit to break and disintegrate into his tea.

'Buggery 'ell.' Jules muttered.

Gerty, perched on the arm of the sofa, placed a supportive hand on her twins shoulder. 'We lost our Da, in that riot. The Imperial bastards shot 'im when they raided the alleys. All's 'e was doin' was tryin' t'protect us and our Ma.'

Penelo, who suddenly could not help but hear the monstrous clanking of iron clad Imperials surging through the streets of Rabanastre like a metallic tidal wave, laying about them with their swords unsheathed, as Rabanastran's ran screaming ahead of the flood, blinked back tears of sympathy.

'I'm sorry. I lost family to the Imperial soldiers too.'

Gerty, dark eyes still fierce with a dark, embittered fire, nodded her head jerkily. 'We know, miss, that's why it don't matter that yer're Dalmascan and we're Archadian. Cuz if yer cut us all down the middle we'd all 'ave _poor, bloody bastards_ written right through the middle.' She shook her head angrily.

Penelo frowned not at all sure she understood. She opened her mouth to ask a question but Jules spoke instead.

'It us and them; it's always gonna be. Little Lord, soddy, Larsa might think 'e's 'elping by tidying things up 'round 'ere but 'e's just makin' it easier for those sodding Senators to work us like dogs and pay us nothing but bits of wood.'

Penelo immediately opened her mouth to defend Larsa, who she knew worked very hard to make things better for the people in Old Archades; who was still working to make things better for all Archadians, rich and poor.

'Larsa is trying. He wants to make things better…'

Jules wasn't listening, with a toss of his head he cut her off and continued talking, a mocking leer to his voice.

'Chops that's what they offer us; all 'em up there in their fancy 'ouses, wit' their servants an' all their Gil; they give us bits o' wood an' tell us they're all we need. But the shops still take Gil; still need Gil to buy food don't yer? But all they pay us is in sodding bits of sodding useless wood.'

Penelo could think of nothing to say. She had always thought the Chop system was strange, but had never really thought about in any depth. So much about Archadia was strange and seemingly….pointless….to Penelo, but she had always figured that was because she was just an uneducated shop girl from the desert.

It had never occurred to her that maybe the system was at fault; at least until now.

'Tell, me, Miss.' Doctor Ned leaned forward in his chair with a creak of old springs and equally old bones. 'Do you know much about the Vulgar Uprising?'

Penelo shook her head, 'No. This is the first I have ever heard of it.'

She felt embarrassed about that, like she had wasted her time in Archades. Shouldn't an envoy know something about the country she was stationed in?

Doctor Ned smiled faintly, sadly, almost in memory. 'It was led by a man called Durham Blaketon. He had organised a workers union and planned to storm the Senate while in session to demand proper representation for the Vulgars from the government. They wanted the franchise, the right to vote, Miss. Five hundred people were killed in the riots; Durham and his followers took control of the aerodrome in Trant before they were killed by Imperial soldiers.'

Penelo frowned, cold tea forgotten. 'But I thought everyone in Archades could vote? That's how the senators are elected, isn't it?'

Gerty sighed and helped herself to another biscuit. 'There's an income threshold, ain't there? Yer got t'have so much Gil t'be able to vote in Archadia.' She rolled her eyes disgusted.

Penelo looked swiftly from Jules to his sister to Doctor Ned. '……and Vulgars can't earn Gil, only Chops. So no Vulgar can earn enough Gil to vote?'

Jules leered at her, but his eyes were angry, 'Not just a pretty face, are yer? With a brain like that yer could be a ruddy Senator.' He scoffed.

Penelo barely heard him. There was a strange burning in her stomach, a hot anger behind her eyes. How was Larsa going to make things better, really better, for the people of Old Archades when they couldn't even vote? The system was completely unfair and it was the senators fault.

'But why? Why don't the Senators want you to vote? I mean isn't it better to have more people to vote for them?'

Jules rolled his eyes, 'I take it back, yer not that bright.'

Gerty slapped him round the back of the head as she swallowed the last of her biscuit.

'If we 'ad the vote miss, if all Archadian's could vote, then the poor people wouldn't vote for the rich. We'd out-number the Gentry in Archades an' we'd vote in our own senators not 'em crochety old men who spend all bloody day counting all their mountains of Gil.'

……and, Penelo thought furiously, the Gentry wouldn't like that. Power could shift away from them. That strange, empty-air, invisible power that all the gentleman and ladies in the Imperial court had and the reason they were so nasty to Penelo; because they had power and had been born powerful and Penelo hadn't been and didn't have any power.

Or did she? Everyone said Larsa was in love with her. Was that power? Being loved by the Emperor?

'The Gentry don't like Larsa. Larsa is always saying that the Senate tries to stop his reforms and because they are elected by the people he has to listen to them.'

Penelo thought out loud, not really seeing the other people in the room as suddenly, the unknowable, alien landscape of politics opened up before Penelo's eyes….and for the first time the lines of power and influence started to make sense. Patterns began to emerge as Penelo started to think in a way she had never thought herself able to.

'But the people in Old Archades do like Larsa, right? Because he really is trying to make things better.'

'Oh, yeah, Lord Larsa's a real prince.' Jules sneered and again Gerty slapped him, but she met Penelo's eyes and nodded.

'Yer right, Miss, we knows who's t'blame for it all and it ain't Lord Larsa. He'd at least listen to us if we could bloody well get t'him. But the only way is through the Senate.'

'So if the people of Old Archades got the vote and had their own senator, that would help Larsa, right?'

Gerty smiled and nodded, nudging Jules, who was investigating the last of the biscuits. 'What? Oh, right yeah. We'll 'elp Larsa, no worries.' He added hastily after another prompting nudge from Gerty.

Penelo looked over to Doctor Ned, and abruptly for no real reason, except that suddenly it was as though a light had come on and she could see the world in a totally different way, seeing it as Ashe and Balthier and Larsa saw it, she understood why she had been brought here to meet this kindly old man.

'You! It would be you, Doctor Ned. If the people of Old Archades had the vote, they'd elect you to be their senator.' She exclaimed and was delighted when she saw surprise in the eyes of the two streetears and received a slow, serious nod from Doctor Ned.

'I'm an old man, but I know the ways of the top dwellers better than anyone born down here. I would spend the rest of my days working to represent these people, miss.'

Penelo looked back, almost excitedly, to the two streetears. 'This is what you want me to do, isn't it? You want me to help you get the vote.'

Slowly, exchanging a cautious look between them, Jules and Gerty nodded. Jules cleared his throat awkwardly.

'That about sums it up, yeah.'

Penelo's happiness that she had figured out the streetears scheme faded when she realised she had absolutely no idea how she was going to change anything to help the people of Old Archades.

After all, if Larsa couldn't do it (and she had no doubt in her mind that he had tried; it was the sort of thing he would do, as he'd want every single one of his citizens to have the vote) then she couldn't begin to guess how she would do it.

'So, _Lady _Penelo, yer goin' to help us out? After all we 'elped yer Queen get her 'usband back an' that.' Jules pointed out, unable to resist reminding Penelo that she owed him.

Penelo realised that she _was_ going to help them, because they were right.

She knew what it felt like to be poor and helpless and have no say in how things were done. She would never forget watching the Imperial soldiers rounding people up and forcing them from their homes and into Low Town. She would never forget how helpless she had felt then.

However she wanted to be sure of one thing, 'This isn't going to hurt Larsa is it? Because Larsa is the best Emperor you could have and I won't let anyone hurt him…'

Jules raised a hand dismissively and if it wasn't for the smoke stained, blackened dirty nails on his hand, Penelo would have thought he looked like Balthier as he tossed his head and smirked at her, interrupting her mid-sentence.

'Don't get yer knickers in a twist darling, little Lord Larsa will be fine. 'E's an alright sort, don't mind 'aving 'im for an Emperor.'

Penelo stared down into her tea cup and nibbled her lip, wondering what she had gotten herself into and how she was going to make sure she could pay her debt to the streetears, keep Larsa safe and see that the poor people finally got what they deserved…a chance to speak for themselves.

'Alright, I'll help you as much as I can.'

Jules grinned and Doctor Ned smiled graciously while Gerty stood up and came over to her side of the old sofa to squeeze Penelo's hand.

'Thank yer, miss. Yer a truly good person, Lord Larsa is lucky t'have a lady like yer. Archades is lucky t'have yer help.'

Blushing under Gerty's earnest scrutiny, Penelo's heart thumped hard in her chest. What was she to do now? She didn't know anything about the Senate, or politics or anything important. What was she going to do?

'I…..um, I need to go now.' Penelo stood up, heart thundering and stammering awkwardly. Doctor Ned opened his mouth to say something and started the slow, creaky process of getting up from her chair.

'No, no, please don't get up. I can see myself out….umm, bye!'

She yelped suddenly wanting to get away from these strange people with their secret dreams and schemes. She ended up running out of the little house and away from the Alley of Muted sighs, straight across the bridge and into Nilbasse.

Halfway towards the skycab rank she stopped. In her mind Penelo had been imagining running to Larsa and telling him all about Doctor Ned and the votes and then Larsa would sort everything out by passing a new law or some such thing.

Yet if it was that simple Larsa would have done it already. Penelo might not know much about Archadian politics (and whose fault was that?) but she did know that the Senate had to agree new laws before they could be put into affect.

Stopping in the middle of the bustling Ardent controlled streets Penelo realised that she couldn't tell Larsa. She couldn't burden him with something more that he couldn't fix.

But if Larsa couldn't help her and Gerty (her only other friend in the Palace) was the one who needed her help, who did she turn too?

Zaagabaath? No, because he wasn't a senator and the Senate didn't like the Judges any better than they did the Vulgars, also he probably wouldn't like knowing that a Streetear worked in the Imperial Palace.

Almost without realising it Penelo's feet had started walking in the direction of Trant; towards the Aerodrome. A smile blossomed on her face when she realised that there was one other person who might know something about the Senate.

_Balthier. _

He was Archadian, he was Gentry, he had been a Judge and he knew Jules. Also, he was an ex-criminal and an ex-pirate and had probably masterminded riots and revolutions and political coups in the past before he met Ashe (it was the sort of elaborate thing he would do).

Penelo's smile twisted and became slightly less innocently happy as another, sharp, slanted thought occurred to her (a very un-Penelo thought, in fact). It _occurred_ to her that if Balthier didn't want to help her she had the means to make him.

After all, Penelo was almost sure that Balthier had tried to kill (or at least really badly injure) Al-Cid Margrace and she knew (though she didn't understand why) that Al-Cid wasn't prepared to say anything about it.

There had to be a reason for that. It was usual that a person would at least mention that a friend (or at least ally) had attempted to murder them to other mutual acquaintances.

That Al-Cid had said nothing meant that there had to be some form of big, dark reason for his silence (which Ashe probably wouldn't like, not that she would like finding out her husband had hidden homicidal tendencies). All Penelo would have to do was let Balthier know that she knew what he had done and he would have to help her.

Briefly, as Penelo checked her Gil purse (carefully hidden under her bustier top while in Old Archades) and bought passage on the commercial airship for Nalbina (she couldn't afford passage to Rabanastre), it occurred to her that she was on a slippery slope if she was even thinking about blackmailing Balthier (not to mention thinking words like 'mutual acquaintance').

Still she had just agreed to help two streetears and an old man start a revolution and had already told her best friend she would seduce the Emperor and become Empress of Archadia.

Penelo suspected that if she was actually going to follow through on all these promises she would have to get used to blackmail and politics and power plays.

And, she mused, who better to practice on then an ex-pirate, ex-criminal, ex-Archadian Judge with a secret he no doubt didn't want his wife to know?

Yes, Penelo nodded firmly to herself, if this was what being an Empress was all about, helping Larsa, making things better for people who needed it, then she would do it.

Thus, with head held high as a queen, or empress (though she did not realise it) Penelo boarded the transport for Nalbina without once looking back.

* * *

_A.N: Next up Bahamut rising!_


	14. Chapter 14

**Rabanastre; The Palace and environs**

_A.N: Hi everyone, sixty plus reviews...Yah! As always thanks for the interest and the lovely feedback._

_Also hold on to your hats and buckle your seatbelts this is a rollercoaster ride of a chapter!_

Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca would always remember, ever after, the morning of the day Rozzaria invaded Dalmasca.

She would always remember that one glorious morning, enshrined in memory later tainted by horror and fear and pain. She would remember that that one morning distilled a lifetime of hard won knowledge.

Life was never so good as if was before a fall. Misery and happiness were fleeting but repetitive. It was not possible to know happiness until one knew despair.

She did not know, she would never truly know, what was more preferable; to know both happiness and despair as intimately as a lover or to have never known either and be spared the exhilarating peaks and crushing lows of Hume experience.

On the morning in question Ashe was awoken by the sensation of lips against her hair, tracing the curve of her jaw as light as a feather, lips stroking sensitive skin like the flutter of butterfly wings.

Then, just as she was sinking into those sweet ministrations, she was jabbed in the ribs by a prodding finger and an offensively cheerful voice.

'Rise and shine Highness.'

Ashe's brow furrowed, she mumbled something incoherent in protest and reached blindly, eyes still closed, for the offending hand, clasping it and holding that hand captive against her chest.

Somewhere above her and close to her ear she heard a masculine chuckle. There was the rustle of bed linens as the other occupant of her bed shifted on one elbow and pulled his hand free before stroking his now free hand down her side, fingers tickling over the inside of her bent elbow. She shivered at the touch but refused to rejoin the land of the conscious.

Like a flower seeking the sun Ashe rolled over onto her back, hoping to encounter more soft, sweet caresses. It had been so long and she intended to savour every moment, sucking in this drowsy moment of affection as a plant sought moisture.

'Hmm, that did not look easy. I pity the bedsprings.'

Ashe did not bother to open her eyes, or respond to the drawling voice above her. She simply waited, half enshrouded in sleep, offering herself up to any further pleasures he might care to bestow on her.

He did not disappoint.

Her lips quivered as the pad of his thumb traced over her bottom lip, then followed the curve of her top lip, until she felt her mouth curling into a smile as his touch tickled over-sensitised skin.

'I know you are awake.' He murmured leaving her lips and running one finger over the ridge of her collarbone. 'Even you cannot remain that insensible. It is time to get up, Ashe.'

Still smiling faintly, eyelids twitching with the effort not to open, she remained pliant and languid under his dancing fingers as he fiddled absently with the pearl buttons at the neck of her nightgown.

Pop. The button came loose and quick and skilful as a pickpocket he flipped back the cloth and let his fingers pitter-patter over her exposed flesh. There was another rustling and the hot rush of breath against her tingling, expectant flesh as he ducked down and laid a kiss to the very centre of her breastbone.

'Come now, this is hardly fair.' The light drawl reverberated through her body as his lips walked a delicate path up to her throat. She felt his arms move in on either side of her, ready to take her up in his arms, as he leaned diagonally across her (to avoid her extended stomach). His breath tickled through the tendrils of her hair and it proved a real struggle to continue to pretend to be asleep.

'Here I am, lavishing you with my attentions,' he caught the thin skin over the rise of her collarbone between his teeth in a quick, teasing nip, 'and you cannot even bother to open your eyes.'

He shifted position again moving back from her to lie on his side beside her, instantly she missed the heat and immediacy of his body against hers, his lips and teeth on her skin.

She heard him sigh as his fingers idled in a complex pattern over her nightgown swathed stomach. 'The logistics of this seduction are proving complicated.' He muttered softly, but still loud enough for her to hear. 'I have never enjoyed mountaineering.'

With the deliberate, teasing deftness of a practiced lover, his hand darted lower, under the bed sheets, sweeping down past her stomach to other areas. Ashe could not stop her involuntary gasp and her eyes opened.

'Ahh, there you are.' He purred triumphantly, hand racing out of the sheets and resting, seemingly innocently, over the rise of her stomach. 'Good morning Highness.'

Ashe frowned fussily and raised a hand to scrub at her sleep rimmed eyes in an almost childish action. 'Don't stop.' She muttered mulishly.

Smirking with the smugness of the consummate sinner Balthier rolled over onto his back and clasped his hands over his chest politely. 'Don't stop what?' He enquired raising one eyebrow.

It was only then that she noticed that he was clean shaven. Ashe frowned and stroked a finger down the curve of one of his carefully maintained side-burns. 'You have already washed.'

Balthier was in fact, she now saw, partially dressed, wearing dark cloth pants and his shirt, open, but still covering his shoulders, arms and back.

Rolling onto his side to face her, he reached out to tuck loose threads of her hair behind one of her ear.

'I have been up some time. You, however, have been sleeping on the job. Your Secretary asked me to inform your majesty that your councillors expect your presence in some….hmm,' He affected great nonchalance as he rolled over to consult the time piece he had left on the bedside table last night, '….yes, some twenty-three minutes time for a privy council session.'

Ashe sat up in bed, or at least tried to, in any affect she eventually managed to manoeuvre her seven month and some spare days' pregnant body out of her bed.

'Why didn't you tell me?'

She snapped irritably as she looked about her chamber trying to decide which morning ritual to go about first. Should she go straight to the bathroom to wash or prepare her clothes first?

Balthier was smirking at her, lying comfortably stretched out across the bed, hands clasped over his chest and ankles crossed watching her dithering. 'I did try and wake you however you seemed quite bound and determined to loll about like an over-fed housecat.'

Ashe distained from comment, she had very little time to get ready before the council meeting. Bustling into the bathroom she was soon washed and dressed and ready to resume life as an active head of state.

By the time she re-entered her bedroom the bed was neatly made, her discarded clothes from the day before had been picked up from the floor and Balthier was gone without a trace.

Ashe could not help deflating a little. Admittedly there was only so far they could have gone with their…..early morning playfulness….as Balthier had said the logistics involved in circumventing her bulging stomach took the romance from any assignation, but still she had missed Balthier's odd predilection to be amorous in the mornings. He had been either absent in fact or in spirit for so long that she deeply regretted that she could not fully enjoy his return to form.

The council meeting proved to be much like all the other meetings, filled with her self-important councillors second guessing her decisions (casting aspersions against Balthier) and fretting over imminent war with Rozzaria.

Ashe, who spent every spare moment wondering whether the next time she looked out of one of the palace windows she would see an army massing on the horizon, was already exceedingly irritable when the midwife was ushered in to administer her health checks.

Ashe allowed the woman to poke, prod and fondle her, settling her gaze out beyond the large palace window. The long delayed Rains had finally reached Giza and the dark storm clouds on the horizon cast blackish-purple shadows across the sky. At the very least it was cooler for the advent of the Rains.

'Majesty?' The midwife, a former member of the Giza Nomad tribe, famed throughout Dalmasca for her midwifery skills, drew Ashe's attention back to her presence.

'Yes?' Ashe was slightly embarrassed to realise she had forgotten the woman's name.

'Madam, if it pleases you I'd like to call in one of the Palace physicians.' The woman said bobbing up and down in an awkward curtsey.

Ashe frowned, a jolt of concern coursing through her, 'Why is something the matter?'

'Oh, no, no; least I don't thinks so.' The woman raised a hand to her bright red cloth headdress, jangling her large hoop earrings as she did so. 'Madam is there a history of multiple births in you or the Master Balthier's family?' The midwife asked in offhanded fashion.

Ashe was anything but offhand in response, 'Multiple?'

Almost involuntarily she looked down on her great, advancing stomach. Balthier's jibes of weeks passed floated through her mind. He had said she surely had to be accommodating more than one baby to have grown so large.

'How multiple?'

Ashe had been studiously avoiding thinking too long or too hard on the ordeal that would be her labour. She was no stranger to physical pain, but the prospect of a long and protracted labour did not fill her with anything approaching pleasure.

The midwife smiled, just shy of laughter, 'Well, Madam, I'm pretty sure there's only the two in there. I'm almost certain you're carrying twins. Were not two of your brothers twins?'

Twins? _Twins……more than one baby? Why has no one told me until now? _

'Two.' Ashe said softly, suddenly feeling vaguely unwell. Balthier would not take this well, he was still struggling to accept one child ( but then, Ashe herself was not taking it well, never mind about him). 'My mother bore two sets of twins.'

The midwife unaware of the affect her news was having on Ashe, smiled brightly, her round cheeked swarthy face bright with a healthy cheer. 'Well, that's often how it goes. Twins run in families. But don't worry; there are two healthy, hearty heartbeats I can hear.'

That was good, Ashe conceded dazedly; healthy babies were good.

Ashe managed, somehow, to get through the rest of the midwife's visit without further incident and had just settled down to consider how to inform Balthier that his snide comments and devastatingly witty ripostes had borne decidedly ironic fruit, when the shrieking of a siren shattered her introspection and had her lurching to her feet and seeking a weapon she was not wearing.

Ashe was already rushing to the door of her private chambers when they crashed open and Balthier came in followed by Vaan in full armour.

'There are Rozzarian airships coming from the Sandsea. A merchant airship headed for Rabanastre reported seeing a large body of soldiers, marching in rank, coming from the direction of the Rozzarian border.' Balthier informed her succinctly without preamble.

Ashe felt for a moment as if she had been struck deaf and dumb. Black and white lightening danced behind her eyes, obliterating sight, and all she could hear was the sudden roaring of her blood through her veins.

Her worst fears had been realised. Ever since the bombing of the Cathedral she had woken in the night in terror that Rozzaria would send an army to besiege Rabanastre.

She feared that she could not breathe. Ice and fire seared through her body, scolding her flesh and shattering her mind. Her hands groped at her stomach as a sudden, bright, sharp, and agonising pain rocked through her body.

Her heart leapt to her throat but she swallowed it down hard, she had to deal with the immediate danger. She could not indulge in panic.

Ashe struggled to speak coherently as a distant part of her mind began screaming. 'What of the border blockade? What of our soldiers?'

'We lost contact.' Vaan sounded breathless and not a little worried. 'I sent some scouts out to find out why the border patrol didn't report in. They haven't come back.'

'Who is organising the people? Have the citizens been evacuated to Low Town?' She demanded.

Balthier nodded shortly, 'Being done. Guards have gone to Bahamut Haven to escort the people into the city and the safety of the Paling.'

As he spoke her uncle Halim entered the room as swiftly as he could on his cane. His expression was grim but firm. 'I have contacted Bhujerba. The Bhujerban air fleet are being mobilised, they will be here within seven hours.'

Ashe clamped her teeth down on her lip and ran to the window, looking beyond the heavy, rain laden clouds to the westernmost horizon. Straining her eyesight she thought she could just make out the tiny specks of darkness doting the sky, like a cloud of mosquitos that heralded the advance of the Rozzarian air fleet.

'Word has been sent to Nalbina, but Dalmasca does not have a great many war craft, nor soldiers.' Balthier said quietly, calmly. She turned from the window long enough to meet his serious gaze.

'Therefore I took the liberty to send coded messages to Landis and Archades. Now is the time to call in the cavalry, regardless of political niceties.'

For a moment Ashe felt a surge of irrational anger that Balthier, Vaan and her uncle had taken so many unilateral decisions without informing her, she was the supreme ruler of Dalmasca after all, but such petty thoughts died in an instant.

'It will take too long. Even if Larsa sends troops it is some nine hours flight from Archades to Rabanastre, less from Landis but still, as part of the autonomy treaty the Landissians have no air fleet.'

Ashe thought aloud as she crossed the room swiftly towards the three men.

'Vaan.' She looked up at her Captain and was distantly surprised when he snapped to attention and seemingly unconsciously performed a perfect military salute.

'Take the fastest ships available and the best pilots; do not engage the enemy unless they attack first, but I want Rozzaria to know Rabanastre is not without defences. Warn the Rozzarian fleet that unless they retreat back into Rozzarian air space immediately we will be forced to take military action.'

'Right.'

Vaan again pulled off a perfect salute turned on his heel and ran from the chamber shouting orders to the guards running hither and thither in organised panic throughout the palace. A second later Balthier turned on his heel to follow calling Vaan.

'The Strahl, Vaan, take the Strahl. She's still faster than the Veccara.' Balthier threw a lightening quick glance over his shoulder to Ashe, then caught Vaan by the arm and pulled him further away, out of ear shot.

Ashe did not have time to react to this act of secrecy; her mind was whirling. She crossed again to her window. 'Uncle, what do you recommend? You have the greater experience of full scale military engagement.'

Uncle Halim stepped up beside her and leaned heavily on his cane as they both watched Rabanastran guardsmen ushering panicked, frightened civilians back under the cit. Invisible for the moment the black swarm of Rozzarian ships inched closer.

'The timing is in our favour. Rabanastre can withstand a prolonged siege. Your granaries are full and the water supplies are good. We also have the time to gather in the people from outlying settlements.'

Ashe understood the implicit point her uncle would not enunciate. 'So we have no hope of fighting them? We must hide and hope the Paling holds that is your advice?'

'Ashe…' her uncle placed a hand on her shoulder and she angrily shook it off. It was not the advice that upset her for she knew it was sound, it was her own helplessness. She could not defend her kingdom.

'Ashe!'

She spun about on her heels as Balthier ran back into the chamber, something in the tone of his voice filling her with even greater dread. The suave and unruffled pirate façade was already fraying at the edges as Balthier caught her arm and started to pull her from the chamber.

'They've set up a signal jam. We've lost all means to contact, through radio, any of the troops in the air or communicate with our allies. Radar is down also.'

Ashe did not bother to pull her arm free of his bruising grip as Balthier propelled them down the corridors and through the palace towards the main communications hub, her uncle close on their heels.

'How are we to co-ordinate a defence of the city without radio?' Ashe demanded of thin air; abruptly a sharp, shooting pain jarring through her abdomen, almost making her stumble.

'That is the least of our concerns.' Balthier responded blackly as he swung open the door to the communications room.

The small stone room in the lower sections of the palace was crowded with communication equipment and a number of her privy councils who all began clamouring for her attention at once.

Ashe ignored them all as Balthier drew to a stop in front of the main communication relay where a decidedly anxious looking young man sat before the console tapping feverishly at buttons and dials.

'Listen to this.' Balthier's voice was harsh with restrained anguish as he, ignoring the young Dalmascan officer, snapped over a few relays. Instantly a rich, heavily accented female voice filled the room.

'…….the pure of faith need not fear……Faram loves his children; even the guilty shall know redemption in the bosom of their out my children, hide not behind your false walls and barriers, look not to your false goddess, the idolater Ashelia….'

Another sharp, piercing pain shot through Ashe's lower back and abdomen as she turned to stare at the other people gathered in the small room.

'Who is that? Where is this message coming from?' She demanded hotly, struggling to stand up straight as pain ripped through her body; yet she could not allow herself to become distracted by the sudden advent of this strange pain.

'The Empress Hepzibah.' Balthier sneered, lip curling. 'This is the signal preventing all other transmissions. It's being broadcast on all frequencies, throughout the city.'

Sudden comprehension sheared through Ashe's mind, 'In Low Town? She's sending _that_ message to _my_ people?' Rage rose like a Phoenix inside Ashe's breast, over taking the fear and pain.

Balthier nodded curtly just once. 'They know they can't break the Paling so instead they seek to break the people.' He shook his head disgustedly.

'……..embrace the love of your saviour. The righteous shall be rewarded. If you wish to live, to flourish in this life and the next, strike down the idolater, the harridan, the false goddess; kill Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca.'

The voice from the transmission rolled out from the communication relay speakers like an oil spill, thick, slow, honeyed and assiduous. Ashe twitched with mute, unutterable rage. The sharp, consistent stabbing pains in her abdomen were an almost welcome accompaniment to her fury.

'Can we disrupt the signal or eliminate it at the source?' her uncle crowded towards the console as Balthier drew away, an abstracted and thoughtful look on his face. Ashe caught his sleeve, holding him in place as she turned to her councillors.

'Go. Go down into Low Town. Make sure the people are safe. Find out how far the signal has spread and if any of the people are inclined to follow the advice. I will hold you personally accountable should any ill befall my people.'

One of her councillors, T'noy, a man she loathed and whom she knew loathed her to equal measure, stepped forward.

'And you Majesty, you must take shelter.' T'noy's supercilious gaze shot briefly to Balthier, 'You are a pilot can you not speed your wife to safety? The fate of Dalmasca's future rests in the Queen's womb.'

Balthier quirked an eyebrow and looked T'noy up and down in distaste from the man's shiny, patent leather boots, his heavily embroidered shirt and soft hands that had never known combat. Ashe had often called Balthier a peacock, but T'noy was truly nothing but a useless decoration.

'I am more concerned with Dalmasca's present sir.' Balthier replied coldly. 'If the Queen wishes to leave I will take her to safety, but only when she requests it.'

Balthier made it clear in his tone that he knew Ashe would never abandon Rabanastre.

'Sir T'noy you have your orders.'

Ashe stated coldly and reluctantly T'noy and her other councillors filed out of the room. Almost before they had left Ashe tugged on Balthier's sleeve and led him to the door.

'You need to dispatch that man, Ashe. The rest of your councillors are merely lazy and self-interested, he could be a threat.' Balthier murmured eyes watching T'noy's back with the meditative light of someone considering where to embed the dagger.

'T'noy can keep, we must deal with Rozzaria.'

After the liberation Ashe insisted on a full scale study and inventory of all the left over armaments and assorted weaponry that remained intact on the Bahamut. Most of the stocks had been removed and added to the Dalmascan armoury as the spoils of war, but some gleam of prescience or simple cynicism had led Ashe to maintain some of the Bahamut's functions and weaponry in case of a crisis such as this.

'Where are we going?' Balthier allowed her to tow him along the passages of the palace towards the grounds and the Walk of Heroes beyond.

'The Bahamut's cannons are still usable; sealed under a barrier of magick that can only be lifted by myself.'

She admitted in a whisper what had been her deepest secret, her greatest fear, and her last hope.

Balthier cast a sharp look down on her as they all but ran towards the memorial passageway leading towards the Oasis.

'Well, that was forward thinking of you, Highness.' Balthier finally admitted, sounding both surprised and impressed.

'It was to be a last resort.' Ashe ground out between her teeth.

Their present pace, the thumping of her feet on the marble flooring of the Walk of Heroes, sent shooting bolts of agony up through the soles of her feet into her womb to dance up her spine. She doubled over in pain and almost vomited as agony and bile crawled up her throat.

Balthier caught her, 'Ashe? Sweet gods, are you well?'

She clawed at his sleeves, '…..Bahamut can only be activated by my blood…..we have to go on…'

For an excruciatingly long moment Balthier simply stared into her eyes, dark gaze boring through her as he all but held her upright. Above their heads there was a sudden, squealing, shriek that jerked both their eyes upward.

Ashe watched, almost numb with fury and terror, as a missile streaked across the sky, scraping over the edge of the Paling dome and exploding in a shower of pearlescent sparks against the magickal barrier.

Balthier's expression hardened his mask of competent disinterest closing over his features as he propped her up against one of the pillars.

'Wait there.' He commanded in a voice that brooked no argument, even had she the strength to make one.

Ashe had little choice but to lean drunkenly against the pillar as the ground shook with the impact of more missiles and cannonade fire pounding the Paling and turning the sky into a rippling rainbow of liquid fire and magick. The shooting, aching, grinding pain shredding her insides seemed to resonate with each explosion.

Ashe was startled out of her pained stupor when strong arms caught her and lifted her onto a saddled and armoured waiting Chocobo. Ashe bit down on her lip hard enough to draw blood against the pain that straddling the Chocobo caused her.

Balthier swung himself up on the mount behind her and snapped the reins, all Ashe could do, as the bird launched itself forward along the Walk of Heroes, was grit her teeth and try to stay conscious as the bouncy, jolting sprinting progress of the bird intensified her pain tenfold.

Almost at the base of the Bahamut the war Chocobo was startled by the scream of an open air dog fight. Ashe somehow managed to lift her lolling head to look back towards the city and beyond the wavering, cloudy, iridescent shield of the Paling.

The shadows of huge flying battle galleons passed above, harried and surrounded by smaller craft. Despite her orders the Dalmascan knights had engaged the enemy in the skies.

'Bloody hell, he better not scratch the hull. I just had her re-painted.'

Ashe only vaguely registered Balthier's voice as she saw the Strahl, fleet and swift as a bird, glide over the Paling and slip around an arc of cannon fire from one of the great Rozzarian battle cruisers.

Dismounting the Chocobo was a new experience in agony for Ashe. She could not straighten her spine to stand fully upright for the pain as Balthier secured the Chocobo to the Bahamut by the reins and half carried, half dragged, Ashe into the Bahamut's hull.

The inside of the former sky fortress was blisteringly hot, monstrously dark, and terribly claustrophobic.

The smell of burnt metal and wiring, cordite, and the ancient ghostly copper reek of blood permeated the haze like delirium of pain Ashe fell into as Balthier pushed, lifted, guided and dragged her over fallen debris and up the broken, creaking and unsteady staircases and metal ladders that were the only means of reaching the control deck.

The muted booms and roars of airship engines from above reverberated through the echoing metal walls of the Bahamut. Ashe staggered against the twisted, bent and broken hand rail on one walkway, collapsing to her knees and vomiting profusely as it seemed to her as if her insides rushed out from her body in a liquid wave.

Balthier pulled her to her feet; she could not tell if he was being gentle or rough with her, it did not matter. All that mattered was the hot scolding gush of fluids that had flooded from between her legs. Ashe stared down at her soaked dress in shock and terror.

Balthier, casting one swift, cursory look down at the puddle at her feet, tossed his head and grabbed hold of her.

He managed to manhandle her into his arms as he staggered towards the control deck. Ashe screamed as he folded her up in his arms and she thought for a moment she would die right there, staring at the dead and grey central power core of the Bahamut.

'…..I'm sorry Princess.'

Ashe was in too much pain as Balthier struggled to carry her while also negotiating the fallen girders and support pillars, the detritus of the Bahamut's décor, on his way to the control deck, to truly acknowledge the quiet sorrow and fear exposed in his apology.

Ashe was not fully lucid when Balthier reached the main deck, where once Vayne Solidor had stood and watched her uncle Ondore's Resistance armada rally to protect Rabanastre and given the order to fire the very same cannons Ashe needed to activate now.

When Balthier pushed a short dagger into her hands Ashe slashed at her own left palm without thinking. She did not feel the sharp, bright spark of pain as blood welled up from the cut.

Balthier guided her hand to the main control console and her lips moved numbly, mumbling the magick incantation to break the magickal sigils protecting the mechanism.

Balthier left her sitting in one of the dusty chairs, like a marionette with her strings cut, almost convulsing in pain, as he moved with brisk efficiency to fire up the engines of this magnificent juggernaut of war; his father's dream child.

Tears slid down her cheeks as Ashe folded in on herself upon the chair before the main viewing window in the control deck and stared out at a scene straight from her nightmares.

She watched small, fast, but poorly armoured, fighter gliders slip in and out and all around larger, stronger, but much less manoeuvrable, enemy battle ships. She screamed inside as some of the smaller fighters were caught in the strafing fire of the larger vessels. Shot out of the sky they fell in golden showers of burning wreckage.

For a moment, caught in a haze of pain, it seemed to Ashe that time had reversed, that everything she had lived through in the last five years was merely fantasy and she was back aboard the Strahl, watching the Bahamut fall, taking with it the man she loved.

'…….the pure of faith need not fear……Faram loves his children, even the guilty shall know redemption in the bosom of their god….'

The insidious, distorted echo of the Empress Hepzibah's poisonous and seditious words snapped Ashe from her stupor she turned her head, gasping in pain as another grinding, crunching pain all but poleaxed her. She saw Balthier pulling a hand held communication devise, like the one she had used onboard the Strahl to declare ceasefire five years ago, from a panel.

'I think that woman has done more than enough talking already.'

Balthier pressed the device into her hands. 'Speak Ashe. Let them all hear what a real Queen sounds like.'

Ashe shook her head, struggling dazedly to focus on her duty, '….Balthier….no….the weapon……we need the cannons…'

Why was he fussing with a communication device when all around them the fight roared on and Dalmasca's hard won freedom burned away with the dying day light?

'_You_ are Dalmasca's weapon, Ashe. Speak to your people.' Balthier told her, for a moment stopping to press a trembling kiss to the top of her head, before turning to work on charging the cannon.

Ashe fumbled with uncoordinated fingers to activate the device. '……people of Dalmasca…' Ashe choked off when another body shaking pain tore through her, stealing her breath.

'People of Dalmasca,' Ashe almost screamed over and alongside the pain that ripped her apart from the inside out. 'People of Dalmasca this is Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca.'

Ashe heard her own voice, sounding shallow and rasping to her own ears, amplified and increased in volume as the Bahamut sent her voice outward through the air like a weapon all of its own.

A current of renewed strength surged through her as Ashe realised what Balthier had meant. Through the Bahamut Ashe could do to the Rozzarian's what they had done to her. She would drown out the Empress Hepzibah's voice with her own.

'People of Dalmasca I cannot offer you an eternity of peace. I am no goddess but merely a mortal woman of flesh and blood…' again Ashe was forced to stop as another wave of agony tried to force a scream from between her lips. Ashe sucked in a shallow gasp of air and refused to go quietly into death and defeat.

'I have tried to provide you, as my father did before me and his father before him, with a safe place to raise your families and a kingdom we can all be proud of. I have tried and maybe I have failed, but I swear to you that I will fight until my last breath and, gods willing beyond even that, for you all. I will fight to make your lives safe from strife and pain.'

Ashe could not stop the gasp of strangled pain as another contraction ripped through her, her fingers almost lost their grip on the speaking device.

'I can do no more than ask your sufferance. I will not, cannot demand, nor expect, your fealty, nor your obedience, only ask that you give me the chance to protect you, to deliver you and your families from this new threat.'

Ashe clutched at the cobwebbed and dust covered console before as she folded forward, eyes rooted to the viewing window and staring at the large Rozzarian battle airship that floated close to the Bahamut, almost mocking her with its shining white and silver gilt glory.

Underneath her the console lit up as Balthier finally managed to bring life back to the Bahamut, once a weapon wielded against her city, now Rabanastre's last and best defence.

The whole structure of the Bahamut shuddered and roared, for a moment Ashe thought the towering construct would shake itself to pieces with the two of them in it, as the core came to life and the cannon powered up.

The conduits, like the arteries of a long dead giant, burned with new life, red and gleaming through the smudges of dirt and soot as Balthier tapped and pounded at the buttons and dials and levers on the control panel. His dark eyes met hers as his hand wrenched down the firing level.

Ashe raised the speaking device to her lips and screamed her defiance straight towards the glowing white vessel before them as all around her the Bahamut roared into life and fury.

'I am Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca and I defy any god who would harm my people. I will strike down any who would take my home from me.'

From the viewing window of the Bahamut Ashe could not see the huge cannon, nor the pulse of pure energy, the last reserves of the hated Nethicite that she had left, like a poison, within the power core of this lumbering monument to war, that streaked across the sky towards the white gleaming vessel.

All Ashe could see was the retina scaring eruption of fire and magick and liquid Mist as the Bahamut's beam sliced through the vessel's shielding and pierced the flying galleons side like an arrow tip; rupturing its hull and sending the Rozzarian flag ship to rain down in pieces like a shower of comets upon the desert.

Balthier did not rest upon his laurels; with swift movements he activated the radar sensors above their heads and set up an auto-firing command to track and fire upon the rest of the armada once the cannon had recharged.

Ashe struggled to breathe through pain and mounting panic her hands trembled in her lap as she let the speaking device drop to the floor. Balthier crouched beside her chair and cupped her face in his hand.

'My waters…my waters broke..'

She had known that the pain she had been experiencing could be nothing less than the onset of labour, but still it was hard for her to comprehend. 'I am in labour.'

She did not resist as Balthier lifted her from the chair and helped her stretch her legs out on the floor of the control deck, cradling her upper body in his arms. The physical pain was nothing compared to the desperate, unfathomable terror she felt in her soul.

Another sickening jolt seemed to rock Bahamut's unsteady foundations as the cannon fired again. This time the blast missed, but did break through the enemy ranks allowing the Dalmascan knights, led by Vaan in the Strahl, to tear through the enemies flank.

'It's too soon……I'm not due.'

Ripping her gaze from the panorama of war before her she sought comfort, hope and solace in Balthier's sardonic brown gaze.

'Well then, feel free to stop whenever you chose. I have no skill in midwifery and even less desire to acquire any.' He whispered dryly gathering her closer in his arms.

Another grinding contraction bowed her spine; Ashe clawed as his sleeves and buried her head in his shoulder.

'I'm scared.' She whispered.

The confession slipped free of her lips unbidden. She had never conceded to fear before in her life. Not when Rasler died, not when Vossler, soaked in blood, had swept her away from the palace, the Imperial army at their heels, not even on the eve of their battle against Vayne Solidor.

Ashe did not think she had ever truly known fear until now; until this moment when her kingdom and her babies hung in the balance.

There was nothing left that she could do as her body betrayed her, no longer able to provide sanctuary for her unborn offspring, and all her best laid plans to protect her kingdom balanced on the knife edge of capricious fate.

'I'm scared.' She repeated, because it was too momentous, too visceral a realisation to be smothered or denied.

'I know.' Balthier whispered against the top of her head. 'So am I.'

Ashe whimpered, not so much in pain as in true terror. If her own confession had hurt her his horrified her. What, save the end of all hope, could scare _him_? Who was to save Rabanastre now?

A loud, shrill squeal and burst of static slashed through the mounting silence within Bahamut coming from the radio relay. The buzzing screeching noise transformed itself into a voice, a familiar, voice.

'…….This is Emperor Larsa Ferrinas Solidor of the Archadian Empire, under the edict of the peace accord between Archadia and Dalmasca the Empire is sworn to protect the sovereignty of Dalmasca. I repeat, to the leader of the Rozzarian fleet, break off your assault against Rabanastre or I will be forced to issue the command to open fire on your fleet….'

Ashe tried to surge to her feet but could not; Balthier however managed just fine. He hurried to the viewing window and actually laughed in sheer relief. 'Sweet bloody blue blazes. It's the entire thirteenth imperial fleet.'

Ashe tried to speak, to breathe, to leap to her feet and scream for joy. She did not care where salvation came from only that it had come; but she could not do anything. Her strength failed her finally and she fell backwards, with nary a whimper, into quiet, peaceful nothingness.

_A.N: I apologise for any inaccuracies with Ashe's labour, I can thankfully say I have no personal experience of such and so have tailored the experience to fit my dramatic licence, not any form of factual accuracy._

_P.S: Twins, huh, bet you didn't see that one coming, hmm?_


	15. Chapter 15

**Within ****Bahamut**

_A/N: __Esper__ of the Epidural...__heehee__...Cable __Fraga__, you have no idea how tempted I was to write something like that...I might still have the chance too!_

_As some of you might have noticed, this final instalment of the Conversations Arc is going so far over the edge of melodrama it's freefalling in a vacuum. As always your feedback, interest, and brilliant reviews simply encourage me to push it even further...thank you!_

The sound of Ashe's head hitting the metal flooring of the Bahamut's control deck jerked Balthier's attention from the dramatic occurrences outside.

'Ashe?'

He hurried over to her, ignoring for a moment the very immediate concern that most of the surviving Rozzarian fleet had turned their guns upon the Bahamut and instead turned his full attention to the other immediate concern; namely the fact that Ashe appeared to have entered into a decidedly premature labour.

Sliding one hand behind her upper back he lifted her head from the floor; Ashe's eyelids jumped and fluttered but she did not wake. Sweat and tears laced her lashes and her face was pale and waxy.

He peeled back (as gently as he could) one of her eyelids and was presented with the whites of her eyes. Balthier could not decide if unconsciousness was not a preferable state for Ashe at the moment. He had been aware for some time how much pain she had been in and it had almost physically hurt him to ignore her in favour of the Bahamut's controls.

Every bloody day it grew harder and harder to pretend he simply did not care.

Where once he could make erudite witticisms while he steered this self same stricken sky fortress into the desert sands he now found his tongue heavy and thick in his mouth as he tried to clear the mental space needed to recall the incantation for a healing spell.

When he scooped Ashe up into his arms she whimpered even unconscious but he had no choice but to risk her well-being and their child's (and yes, fear, bright and sharp, had torn away all artifice and exposed the naked nerves of an expectant father forced to choose living mother over unborn child in a moment where no alternative presented itself) as he struggled to get them both out of the vulnerably exposed control deck before it was obliterated by cannon fire.

_This was all so much easier the first time._

The irreverent thought assured Balthier that he was still the man he thought he was, smirking in the face of death because he'd be damned if he'd ruined the act during the final curtain call.

Staggering over twists of wiring and broken ceiling panels, scattered across the floor, Balthier was forcibly reminded of the last time he had carried an unconscious woman in his arms through the Bahamut in a moment of extreme peril.

If he wasn't certain that heartache and a fiery death would soon dispatch him he rather thought he might choke on the irony of it all.

Why was it that no matter how far he flew and what he did, somehow, he always ended up going around and around in circles?

Under his breath the healing incantation was mingled in breathless mutterings with a choice assortment of curses as his arms ached with the effort of keeping Ashe aloft and his back throbbed with a burning pain. He was getting far too old for all this nonsense.

It was at that moment that the first volley of cannonade fire pounded into the Bahamut. Balthier was thrown off his feet, but managed to twist in mid-fall so that Ashe landed atop of him and not vice versa.

Nevertheless he rolled so as to throw his upper body of hers as a rush of heat and tremendous noise roared through the passageway and down the central shaft of the power core bringing with it a gale of broken glass and fire.

The Bahamut seemed to list and groan on its foundations (such as they were) and Balthier gathered Ashe into his arms protectively as he struggled up to his knees, ignoring the biting points of pain in his back from the hail of broken glass.

Immediately, like a mantra, he began chanting healing incantations, with the reverence of prayer, and forced green-white healing magick into Ashe's body.

'This is not how I thought my reign would end.'

Balthier looked down into Ashe's face and saw in her storm grey eyes such a look of resigned panic and sorrow that it hurt him to behold her. In that moment Balthier realised something that had eluded him for all the years of their association, yet even now he held back from acknowledging it even in his thoughts.

'Your reign is not over yet, Highness. This is no time to talk of abdication.'

He gritted out, with forced cheer, wilfully ignoring the fatalistic nuances of her statement, as he started to lift her again only for Ashe to shake him off and regain her own balance on shaky legs. Almost immediately she doubled up in pain as the baby inside decided once more to make its own bid for freedom.

Another shudder went through Bahamut, another barrage of cannon fire. Balthier grabbed hold of Ashe's arm and started to tug her towards the outer bulkhead corridors. As he did so, trying to ignore the small sounds of pain issuing from between Ashe's pursed lips, his mind sought refuge in abstraction.

Mutual acquaintances and other inquisitive personages who knew of Balthier and Fran's adventures aboard Bahamut and the decision Balthier had made to re-board the fortress as it began to fall, had often questioned Balthier why he had taken such a fool-hardy and suicidal course of action.

In the five, almost six years, since he had staggered from the wreckage (having spent two days hiding in the crawl space between the bulkhead walls he was dragging Ashe towards now) with third degree burns to his hands and a Viera in his arms with a shattered pelvis and compound fractured right leg, Balthier had devised numerous explanations and justifications.

He argued that had Fran not been all but crushed by falling debris the two of them would have been able to land the fortress quite safely somewhere in the Sandsea (which had been his plan, in so much as he had had one at the time) therefore his actions were not suicidal, just risky and he was a _pirate_ after all.

When feeling of a more whimsical and flippant mood Balthier had argued that he had not wasted eight months of his life trying to liberate a city merely to watch said city be obliterated in the last moments before victory, therefore pride had forced him back onto the Bahamut.

While as both of these responses had grains of truth within them, being both highly plausible and within the remits of Balthier's acknowledged character, neither of them really touched at the truth; the real motivation that was the same now as it had been then.

The reason he had risked his own life (which he had habitually placed at greater value than almost anyone else's since deciding at sixteen that he could no longer play his father's puppet) aboard Bahamut then was the same reason that kept him moving, half carrying, half sheltering, Ashe against his body, as all around them the Bahamut swayed, listed and fell to pieces.

The reason for everything could be summed up in a simple name, which described an extraordinary person.

_Ashelia__B'nargin__Dalmasca__ It was always for her. _

'Balthier...there is something...I must tell you..' Ashe gasped out struggling to keep up with him as he pushed on towards the bulkhead hatch, where the reinforced, but hollow walls, of the Bahamut's inner shell were at their strongest.

'Now is not the best time for conversation, Ashe.'

He barely heard his own reply as he let go of her and began to check the panelling of the walls for weaknesses he could exploit to make them an entrance.

Within the space of ninety seconds his fingers were bleeding and his nails split almost to the quick but he had found a loose panel. He fumbled in his belt pouch (he never dressed without at least one over-stuffed pouch strung to his belt; too many times he had call to use the emergency bits and pieces he stored in them) and withdrew a screwdriver to help him lever apart the panel.

'Balthier!'

Ashe's strident tones from behind his back, breathy from pain but slightly stronger, as if her labour pains had left her momentarily, snapped him to attention as the panel came away in his hands.

'Mmm?' He murmured more in reflex then attentive response as he poked his head inside the wall cavity and sceptically wondered if it was big enough to house Ashe and her protruding stomach.

'Balthier, today the midwife told me, and I meant to tell you, but then the attack began..' Ashe began fairly incoherently. She sucked in a breath and let it out in a confessional rush of words.

'Balthier I am carrying twins.'

Balthier very nearly decapitated himself on the sharp, jagged edge of the wall he had been peering inside as her words registered in his mind and he jerked upright. He managed to withdraw from inside the wall, rubbing at the nape of his neck, where the jagged edge of the opening he had made had sliced his skin.

For a moment he could only stare uncomprehending into Ashe's pensive, sorrowing eyes. Some distant, snide and perpetually nihilistic part of his psyche began to laugh, dark and bitter, inside his mind.

_The gods are truly having sport with you, my friend, are they not? _Balthier questioned himself sneeringly as for a moment he closed his eyes and simply tried to breathe through mounting panic.

_Perhaps Al-Cid will arrive aboard the __Bahamut__in a cloud of Mist__ and we can console ourselves through random acts of violence upon his person__I__t worked wonders the last time._

Balthier winced and wiped a bloodied hand down his face as he tried to drown out the wildly cynical voice inside his head that found his whole life a delightfully ridiculous farce. When he felt he had some measure of his usual self control in place he opened his eyes and spoke to Ashe.

'Ashe, in the name of all that's holy, why did you choose this moment to tell me that?'

Had it not been bad enough when he had two lives, both precious to him, both of infinitely more value to himself than his own, to safeguard? Now he had three lives, all within the one body (at least for the time being) to try and save.

Ashe looked a little taken-aback by his question and frowned at him, 'I had thought you should know. We might very well die here and now.' She added archly as if he had somehow failed to countenance the severity of their circumstances.

'Then the point is rather moot, isn't it?' Balthier snapped waspishly, obscurely and inexplicably angry with her all of a sudden. 'You could be carrying quintuplets for all the relevance that has on the current situation.' He added with biting savagery.

Why did this woman persist in making his life interminably complicated? Was it not enough that she had made herself the centre of his once quite contentedly self-centred existence?

He was prepared to die for her, prepared to throw his life away to ensure she and their child (best make that child_ren_...oh, yes, indeed, wasn't life filled with unexpected blessings?) survived to see another day. Why did she now have to go and up the stakes even more?

Ashe was preparing herself for one of her righteous temper tantrums, summoning an angry blush to her previously pain drawn and wane cheeks, her eyes flashing like lightening in response to his annoyance.

For a moment it was almost possible to forget the sky battle raging all around them, the very real prospect that one well aimed cannon ball could blast through the outer shell of the Bahamut and kill them in an instance; for that one instance the rest of existence took second place to their inability to hold a reasonable conversation that did not dissolve into a bickering match or a monstrous disagreement.

'I cannot believe you would speak to me in such a manner.' Ashe exploded, outraged and resplendent in all the glory of her wounded dignity.

Balthier, with the keen sense of life verging into lunacy, crawled over to her, where she leant heavily against the opposing wall, caught her face up in his hands and kissed her passionately, full on the lips.

He only pulled back from her when something, judging by the muted sounds of an explosion some way below them and from outside, crashed into the side of the Bahamut, causing the monstrously resilient but beleaguered former sky fortress to roar like a beast in pain, pieces of ceiling tile raining down upon their heads.

' Highness, please, get into the hole and stay there.'

Balthier was painfully aware that he was close to begging as he rested his forehead against her own for a moment in a quick in embrace before she pulled back enough to study the cavity in the wall.

She looked from it to him dubiously, 'We shall not both fit.'

'We don't need to,' Balthier admitted blithely as he none too gently began to push her inside, quietly thankful to whichever wandering god or twist of capricious fate which seemed to have called a momentary surcease to Ashe's contractions for the time being, 'for only you are going in there.'

'What?'

Ashe immediately tried to crawl back out of the wall cavity, which thanks to her diminutive size (even accounting for her recently acquired bulk) was spacious enough that she could partially recline inside the wall space, instead of adding to her agonies by forcing her to contort her body into a crouch.

Balthier blocked the entrance to the cavity and pushed her back inside. 'Ashe stay inside, should the Bahamut fall, you have the best chance of surviving inside this wall; I should know, Fran and I hid in these walls for days.'

'But what of you?' Ashe demanded.

Balthier sighed, 'I am going back up to the control deck to hail one of our ships, or Larsa's fleet. You cannot birth your offspring wedged inside the walls of a fallen sky fortress, Highness. It is undignified.'

His attempt to distract and diffuse the situation with humour was a failure. Ashe's hands shot out from the cavity and locked into his vest, curling around his neck. 'You can't. It is not safe.'

'Nonsense, Highness, I survived Bahamut once, I can do so again. I will only be a moment and then I shall come right back.'

He replied with bluff confidence that failed to convince even him. The last glimpse he had, as he had fled, of the Bahamut's control deck had revealed a gaping hole in its outer wall large enough to admit the Strahl. Still the communication's array might still be active and there was no other means of getting aid or rescue for Ashe.

The onset of another painful contraction gave Balthier the opportunity of escape, pushing his labouring wife into the wall cavity more securely, Balthier almost thought of sealing her in by replacing the panel, but did not for fear that she might suffocate.

'Balthier!' Ashe's chocked cry was strangled mid-outrage by pain and Balthier grimaced, wincing deep in his soul as he walked away and left her to it.

He told himself firmly that the only way in which he could truly help her was by leaving, nevertheless the action felt like betrayal.

Balthier was almost pitched over the guardrail down into the central well of the power core as he reached the circular walkway leading to the still functioning elevator up to the control deck, as another attack forced the Bahamut into a dangerous tilt; the entire structure dangerously and precariously coming to rest at a noticeable angle.

When Balthier was able to get to his feet once more, taking a moment to grip his ribs where he had been thrown, painfully, against the railings and suspecting that his ribs had been cracked at the very least, he half crawled and half stumbled towards the elevator.

The elevator, affected by the listing motion of the Bahamut, stopped halfway between the lower floor and the control deck, so that Balthier was forced to jump (his ribs screaming in a protest his vocal cords soon echoed) to catch the lip of the upper floor with his hands and haul himself bodily back into the control deck.

When he managed to belly-crawl up over the ledge and onto the floor of the control deck he could taste blood in his throat and his ribs seemed to grate together like broken twigs with every awkward breath.

Balthier began to suspect that his collision with the guardrail during that last assault had done more damage than he had suspected. Despite this his thoughts were first and foremost on Ashe. He had to hope that he was right and she was still safe within the wall cavity.

He crawled on hands and knees, spitting blood, over the litter of broken metal and debris from the obliterated wall, making his slow, careful way towards the communications array console.

Staring out at the frenetic battle through the hole in the control deck wall, Balthier initially suspected the strange swaying and listing lack of focus of the view (fighter gliders with the Caduceus markings of the Archadian fleet mingling with the blue and silver sleek vessels of the small, but determined Dalmascan guard, harrying the larger, ponderously slow Rozzarian craft) was a by-product of his recent injuries.

It was only as one of the larger (Bhujerban?) vessels in the fray flew close enough to the hole in the Bahamut's shell and the whole structure creaked, groaned and swayed so badly Balthier slid across the floor to crash into one of the half destroyed consoles, that he realised that the swaying was Bahamut and not him.

_Oh, bloody hell_

Pulling himself across the tilting floor using the control consoles, like a mountaineer used handholds in a rock face, Balthier reached the still active communication relay.

He was almost thrown right over the console and onto the floor beyond when another vessel (this one bearing Archadian insignia) recklessly swerved to avoid a Rozzarian cannonade blast and clipped the side of the Bahamut's upper decks with its wing. Once again the Bahamut rocked on its disintegrating foundations, leaning dangerously in the opposite direction than before.

_Sweet gods, she's going to fall to the ground!_

With sickening clarity Balthier realised that if the Bahamut toppled she would either crush the town of Bahamut Haven, or, and this was barely conscionable, the fortress would fall backwards, and was large enough to take some of Rabanastre's city walls with it.

_...and if the walls go, so too does the Paling._

It was as if life had come full circle and once more the Bahamut was on the verge of crashing to the ground and obliterating Rabanastre. Only this time, Ashe was not safely ensconced onboard the Strahl, she was inside this death-trap with him, possibly giving birth as he thought this, to twins.

It was moments like this that Balthier found himself with complete sympathy for his father's decision to resort to total lunacy in an act of defence, and possibly defiance, against life. If Balthier survived this he fancied he might do the very same. He had more than earned the right to retreat from reality.

Slamming his palm down on the communication relay to activate a channel he twisted dials until he had hacked into the recognisable Dalmascan frequency.

...repeat we have them on the defensive, drive them towards the Bahamut and away from the city..'

Balthier did not recognise the voice of the soldier giving this disastrous order (could he not see that the Bahamut was not safe?) and he groaned in a mixture of exasperation and the pain in his chest.

'...no, look at Bahamut, it's going to fall...and Ashe and Balthier are still in there!'

This voice he did recognise. Balthier lifted his head as Vaan's voice, uncharacteristically serious, crackled over the disrupted transmission.

'Vaan!' Balthier yelled down into the communication speaker, not at all sure that anyone outside would pick up the Bahamut's transmission.

His only response for the first few seconds was the thunderous, continuous rapport of weapons fire from the skirmish in the skies around him and the crack and pop of the static dancing through the communication array.

And then... 'Balthier!'

To Balthier it sounded as if multiple voices cried his name (he even thought he heard Fran's exotic inflections in the echo through the static, but dismissed this as wishful thinking).

'...Balthier can you hear...me...?' Vaan's voice crackled in and out of comprehension, Balthier twiddled the dials trying to boost the signal, but succeeded only in making it worse.

As he looked up at the gaping hole in the wall, hoping for a glimpse of his beloved Strahl, he saw instead one of the Rozzarian fighter galleons, not currently involved in the fighting, position itself for a side cannonade blast to the Bahamut, that if it hit, would likely destroy the top decks of the Bahamut (including the control deck) and topple the beleaguered fortress once and for all.

'Vaan, the silver galleon, concentrate your fire on the ship before she fires on Bahamut.'

Balthier had time to shout down the speaker, before abandoning the communications relay entirely and lurching towards the flight controls.

It was desperate, ill-advised and perhaps futile, but Balthier realised his only real hope of keeping Ashe (and by-extension Rabanastre) safe was if he could somehow get the Bahamut airborne once more.

Strafing fire from the silver galleon, now encircled by a school of smaller fighter gliders in the varied colours of Archadia, Bhujerba and Dalmasca, pierced the control deck; Balthier ducked over the flight controls, but did little else to avoid being hit.

He had already accepted his own death as within the acceptable parameters of collateral damage. All that mattered was that he lived long enough to set the Bahamut down safely somewhere that Vaan, or one of their other allies, could rescue Ashe.

He barely acknowledged the white hot streak of pain that grazed his right temple as he checked energy gauges and activated circuits and power conduits, flooding damaged and long rusted sand-blasted power relays with Mist energy, stale from long storage in the cold heart of the Bahamut's power core.

Impatiently he swiped at the deluge of blood that swept down his head from that hot, lightening strike of pain and squinted against the greying of his vision as suddenly he felt both light-headed and inexplicably cold.

Intellectually he suspected the sudden weakness in his limbs, the fumbling lack of co-ordination in his fingers and the sudden chill squeezing down on his heart and chasing up his veins, foretold his death. However he had neither the time nor inclination to care.

Power roared through Bahamut and with the cataclysmic suddenness of an avalanche and the ponderous, improbability of a mountain moving, the Bahamut lifted from the desert sand.

Vaguely Balthier heard, in muffled snatches through numbed senses, an assortment of crashes and rumbles that suggested that Bahamut had left some of its more damaged and entrenched lower levels embedded in the sands, tearing itself asunder as it rose into the battle scored night sky.

There was something exhilarating about being at the helm of such a construct as this. The pinnacle of Hume engineering, the very embodiment of all that was innovative but also utterly corrupt in the Hume mind.

He was flying a tower of solid metal through the desert night sky and the fortress floated above Rabanastre's Paling as gently as a cloud. For just a moment, before pain and fear came back home to roost, Balthier felt more alive than he had ever felt before.

He sank into one of the chairs bolted to the floor before the control console and forced his fumbling fingers to tap in co-ordinates. South and vaguely east, he pictured the Ozmone Plains in his mind's eye.

'...Balthier...can you read me...this...arsa...idor...where is...dy Ashe?'

He was jolted out of a strange, peaceful, stupor by the communication relay. Blinking confusedly Balthier saw that a number of vessels, the Strahl included, had broken off from the air fight to follow the Bahamut.

Staring blearily at the control console Balthier realised he could re-route communications through to the console he was using, which was just as well as he feared he would not be able to walk the distance to the communications array, even if he had been able to leave the fortress to its flight unattended.

Reality interrupted as Balthier tried to remember where Ashe was, fairly certain that she was still onboard somewhere.

As he was trying to force brain and tongue to co-ordinate a response one of the Rozzarian Galleons managed to slip free of its Bhujerban attackers and began firing on Bahamut and the vessels flying parallel with the fortress.

Almost immediately, as the Strahl was forced to take evasive action away from Bahamut, Balthier realised that the fortress was losing altitude; beginning to drift downwards, almost gently, over the wet and treacherous ground of the Rains saturated Giza Plains.

The Rozzarian galleon, a garishly daubed red vessel, bristling with cannon both front, side and aft, sped towards Bahamut. Balthier forced the downward drifting fortress into a leftwards veer as, through the gaping hole in the control deck wall, he saw the red galleon's cannons fire.

Somewhere below the control deck the Bahamut took a direct hit, the fortress seemed almost to scream as a hole was blasted right through its outer shell. The cannonade fire piercing to the very heart of the fortress.

_Ashe!_

Monitors and consoles screamed at Balthier, fire blossomed in the control deck as residue shot from the lesser cannons raked across the far wall, coming in through the hole left from the initial direct strike to the control deck.

Balthier cursed and fought with a thousand tonnes of metal, magick, and Mist trying to keep the ailing construct from sinking into the boggy swamp lands of the Giza Plains.

As Balthier struggled to keep afloat and moving towards a safer landing in the Ozmone Plains, another ship, perhaps about the size and make as the Strahl, but without her sleek lines and adornment, seared through the sky, two front cannons rapid firing at the red galleon.

Something about the grace and ferocity of the ships movements seemed familiar to Balthier, but he could not spare the time in his fogged mind to ponder the fact as fought for control of the Bahamut.

With the aid of his beloved Strahl and her small, inconspicuous, but always discreetly armed front cannon, the unfamiliar, unmarked ship managed to chase the red galleon from Bahamut.

Balthier was silently grateful to both Vaan (and hadn't he taught the boy to be an excellent pilot, hmm?) and the mystery ship as the ground underneath the wavering, gently falling Bahamut began to change. Brown and marshy wetlands began to morph into long swathes of rich grasslands, dotted with craggy cliffs and winding inclines as the Ozmone Plains rolled out beneath Bahamut.

'Balthier can you hear me?'

The voice that whispered over the communication relay was as sweet and welcoming to his increasingly slipping consciousness as a long, cool drink of fresh spring water.

_Fran! _

Balthier did not know if he spoke out loud as the mystery airship rounded the Bahamut and seemed to hover before the hole in the control deck's wall as if peering inside.

Balthier, who had not realised he was all but prostrate against the control console until he tried to sit up to wave, managed a smile of sheer relief, letting his head droop once more.

He should have known when he saw that ship in battle against the red galleon, who was at the helm. Fran always flew the way she fought in battle, equal parts grace and savagery.

'Fran, Ashe...' Balthier struggled to formulate the words he needed to convey. His tongue was heavy and swollen in his throat and his thoughts were foggy. His right eye was squeezed closed under a congealing mask of blood from the fast running gash across his right temple that throbbed with an icy heat.

'Dock...with Bahamut...she's in the wall space.'

Balthier swerved the Bahamut as it started to descend too soon, the broken bottom of the fortress scraping across the cliffs. Belatedly it had occurred to him there was no way he could safely set down the Bahamut when the fortress was in tatters.

'I can't keep Bahamut afloat for much longer and she'll not land gracefully this time about. Ashe is in the wall...where we hid...labour started...did you know she was carrying twins?'

That last part was neither here nor there, but Balthier's consciousness was already fragmenting. His focus narrowing down to the simple imperative to keep the fortress aloft long enough for Fran, or Vaan, to get to Ashe. After that it really did not matter.

Balthier was only peripherally aware of a secondary conversation, carrying over the communication array, between Fran, Larsa aboard the Alexander, and Vaan that ended with the simple affirmative of:

'I'm on it.' from Vaan.

Time may as well have stopped for all the awareness Balthier accorded its passing. Slumped forward in a manner that destroyed years of rigorous good posture, bleeding profusely from the bullet wound to his head, Balthier was all but blind and deaf to everything except the roll of green plains beneath him and the Bahamut's sensors.

The Bahamut shuddered as another vessel attempted to dock with it while in flight and the communication array hissed into life.

'Balthier, hey, Balthier, the bulkhead doors are closed.'

Vaan's voice penetrated Balthier's skull unpleasantly crackling over the internal communications feed and with the motions of a soulless automaton Balthier sightlessly flipped the switches to open the bulkheads.

He was ready when the Bahamut rocked in mid-air, de-stabilised by the extra weight of the Strahl clamped to its docking bay and the release of the bulkheads. He compensated for that by snapping shut the inner bulkhead doors; the doors that sealed the outer corridors where he had hidden Ashe from the inner power core chamber and the elevator to the control deck.

Balthier had never expected to be rescued in any event, so he did not mourn the loss of his last avenue of escape.

'Fran, I can't keep her flying any longer, this bird is coming in to land.' Balthier mumbled, barely coherent, into the speaker. 'What of Ashe, is she out?'

Balthier could just make out the open space of a deep cleft in the land near Jahara, a canyon cut into the land by the river fast approaching.

The Bahamut's shattered lower half was already scraping across the ground, leaving deep smoking gouges in the fertile grazing lands where the Dalmascan contingent of Atholl sheep were tended by the Garif herders.

The ravine would be a safe place to crash the Bahamut, away from any habitation and the grazing lands so essential for Dalmasca's prosperity.

'...Balthier...open the bulkheads, come on, Ashe is here, we have to go. Balthier?' He thought he heard Vaan yelling through the internal communications relay.

'Balthier; Balthier? Answer me.'

A second voice, so strident, so tense, that it sliced through the gathering static in his brain like cheese wire could only belong to Ashe. He heard pain and fear in her voice, but all he felt was relief that she was clearly still alive.

'Vaan, you must leave.' Fran's voice coming from outside, but patched into the Bahamut's signal was still cool and clean, but there was an uncharacteristic astringent bite of, if not panic (Balthier did not think Fran capable of panic), then certainly deep concern.

'But what about Balthier?'

'Vaan you must away. The Bahamut teeters on the brink of the gorge, she is falling. You must break dock with her before you too fall.'

Balthier lifted his head, just barely from the hard, cold, blood slicked surface of the control panel, mildly curious.

A cursory, blurring squint through the hole in the wall proved Fran right. The ground had given way to empty air, as the Bahamut tilted inexorably downward and he saw the first serpentine curve of the river far below.

'But Balthier?' The complaints went on, ignored by the man they concerned.

Fran's voice rolled over the communication lines with the fatality of one who knows the burden of longevity. 'He responds no longer. There is no movement from the deck. You must escape.'

After that there was silence through the communication array and for Balthier there was nothing left to do but fall.

'Balthier!'

Ashe's scream seemed to catch the current of the wind that roared in through the hole in the control deck as the Bahamut began its fall in earnest, but it no longer sounded as if it came through the internal communications array. Balthier sincerely hoped it didn't, at any rate. There was nothing worse than giving one's life heroically but in vain.

He thought he heard a great many voices clamouring and clashing together, screaming his name, exclaiming in horror, much as they had the first time the Bahamut fell, as the river and the ground rushed up to embrace the Bahamut in her fall.

_Ahh__, and here we go once more_Balthier thought almost whimsically, as the sheer force of the wind rushing into the control deck and the powers of gravity and momentum took their toll on everything within, Balthier included.

It was almost poetic this repetition of fate, falling with the Bahamut, Ashe screaming his name from within the Strahl. Sadly, unlike the previous occasion, he did not think he would be walking away from this landing.

Balthier had just enough time to know regret for all the things he would not now experience, for all the missed opportunities one only recognises upon death, before the Bahamut crashed into the river and shattered into pieces.


	16. Chapter 16

**Home Coming; ****The**** Battle of ****Bahamut**** Rising**

_A/N: This isn't exactly an Interlude, instead this is the battle, and its aftermath, from __Penelo's__ perspective._

* * *

Upon returning home to Dalmasca Penelo had used the last of her spare Gil to buy passage on one of the passenger carriages through the re-opened Barheim Passage and onwards from Nalbina to Rabanastre.

Tired from the eight hour flight, hungry and in need of a bath, Penelo had gone home to the lodgings she rented with Vaan outside of the Palace above a tailors store in the Bazaar to wash and eat and then gone on to visit Kytes at Migelo's Sundries.

Penelo was just entering the Palace, having stopped to talk with Hemello, Ashe's most senior lady in waiting now that Penelo was an envoy, when the siren's started to scream and panic broke out.

'Rozzarians! The Rozzarians are coming.'

The cry went out as Palace Guard exploded into action. Penelo caught a glimpse of Vaan, struggling into his armour as he ran down the upper corridor by the grand staircase, and immediately started running up the stairs after him.

Penelo was delayed on the stairs by the rush of people running towards her trying to get out and was swept back down the stairs by the tide.

'Make for Lowtown. Move quickly but in orderly fashion.' The guards corralling the people out of the Palace shouted orders that were mostly ignored.

Swept out of the Palace and back out into the main Plaza where the ruins of the Cathedral left a vacant cavity in the sky line, Penelo looked skyward as the hairs at the nape of her neck and backs of her arms stood up on end. As she watched the Paling, all golden green and shimmering like a rainbow, sparked into life creating a magickal dome overhead.

Penelo managed to escape the press of frightened people before she was swept right down into the streets of the city and below to hide in Lowtown. Sliding at an angle against the stream of people Penelo broke away unnoticed and ran around the side of the Palace towards the barracks.

She was just rounding the topiary garden when she saw Ashe and Balthier running hand in hand towards the Walk of Heroes. Penelo called out to them but neither seemed to here.

She almost set off after them until she caught a glimpse of a short, armour clad, man with pale hair waving his arms about all over the place as he ordered pilots to run to their ships and took off running himself away from the barracks and towards the Palace's smaller, enclosed courtyard.

'Vaan!' Penelo called and waved to him but her friend did not hear, without a moment's hesitation she took off after him grateful that she was a fast runner.

Penelo reached the courtyard just as the Strahl was rising from its loosed moorings and the wings were unfurling. Immediately she started jumping up and down and waving her arms about trying to get the pilot's attention (it wasn't Balthier because he was all the way on the other side of the Palace with Ashe and it wasn't Fran because Fran wasn't in Dalmasca, so it had to be Vaan at the helm; no one else was allowed to fly the Strahl.)

At first she thought he hadn't seen her as the engines fired and coughed into life, but then the side hatch opened even as the Strahl idled in the air and the rope ladder descended. Penelo needed no further invitation.

The Strahl continued to rise as she struggled up the ladder and eventually hauled herself into the entrance bay. Vaan barely gave her chance to close and secure the hatch before shoving the Strahl forward and away.

Penelo waited until the first breakneck surge of forward momentum had ebbed (she knew how just how badly the Strahl bucked when straight out of the 'traps' as Balthier put it) then made her way towards the empty navigator's chair as Vaan activated the sympathetic shielding around the Strahl that would let the ship through the Paling without damaging it.

'Hey,' Vaan said in greeting, only sounding a little less cheerful than usual and not a bit surprised to see her. He swerved the Strahl into the head of the Dalmascan Guards flying formation, 'I thought you were with Larsa in Archades?'

Penelo, checking fuel gauges and diagnostics, slapping a palm down on the always finickery radar screen, looked up briefly to smile slightly at her friend. 'I thought I'd come home for a visit.'

'Huh? Good timing.' Vaan grinned. Then they both turned their attention to the huge mass of black dots coming from the west. Penelo bit her lip.

'There are so many of them.' She whispered.

Vaan shrugged, his chainmail covered shoulders squeaking, 'There were way more when we fought Vayne Solidor.' He said dismissively.

'There was also all the Resistance fighters then too. There's no-one to help us this time, Vaan.'

Vaan frowned a little at Penelo's negative attitude, 'Ondore's called in his ships. All we have to do is keep them busy for a few hours.'

'A few_ hours_?'

Penelo stared from the radar screen bleeping and swarming with a scattering of friendly blue dots around them and a multitude of threatening red dots moving fast upon them.

She knew both from experience and from Vaan and Balthier telling her (over and over) that the Strahl was one of the fastest and most agile airships in the skies (Balthier claimed it was _the fastest_) but speed and agility were only good when running away, not when going straight into a headfirst battle with at least twenty huge fighter galleons and too many smaller gliders to count.

For just the smallest instance Penelo wished she'd thought things through before clambering aboard the Strahl with Vaan, but she swiftly shook her head to dislodge that kind of thinking. Penelo was fiercely patriotic (she'd helped to liberate her country after all) and fiercely loyal to her friends. There was no chance she would ever let Vaan fight alone.

'Balthier told me to fight like a pirate when he said to take the Strahl, so that's what we're going to do.' Vaan said cheerfully as he flipped the switches on the Strahl's communications array so he could talk to the other pilots.

'Hey, alpha squad break formation, head towards Nalbina; beta, hang back. Delta, go forward, the rest of you follow my lead. Let's really confuse these stupid Rozzarians.'

Penelo heard the quick statements of agreement from the squad leaders, most of them former resistance members and the rest had, she supposed, just gotten used to being ordered to do crazy things that somehow worked out anyway by Vaan these last five years.

Vaan turned back to Penelo with that big grin he always wore when he was planning to do something really dangerously stupid (and had done ever since he was fifteen and stole his first Gil purse.) Penelo had learnt to mistrust that grin.

'Here we go!' Vaan yelled and shoved the Strahl forward.

The ship jumped into rocketing flight like a racing Chocobo that had just been shocked with a bolt of Thundaga (Balthier did not call his Strahl 'the temperamental madam' for nothing).

The rest of the flying squads followed Vaan's orders and, watching the little dots separate like a mound of ants disturbed, Penelo realised that to the Rozzarians it would look like insanity, the Dalmascan ships retreating, pressing the attack, and holding position all at once. They wouldn't know what to expect.

Which was exactly what Vaan wanted, he thrived on his enemies not knowing what he was thinking (or if he thought at all) and taking them completely by surprise when he actually did something clever.

'Penelo start up the Noise Box.'

Vaan gave the order as he raced towards one of the galleons painted all in yellow with a strange bird-like picture on its hull alongside the flag of Rozzaria and the sign of the Kiltia.

Penelo blinked in surprise (The noise box! That was his plan?) She had forgotten about the strange signal jamming device under the navigational control panel in front of her.

Balthier had been very proud of the so-called _Noise Box_ when he acquired and fitted it (while she and Vaan were still acting as his apprentices) and Fran had told her that the device sent out a signal that jammed all radar signals in any ships around.

Fran also said it was very illegal to have one. Balthier had just laughed and replied that most unfair advantages were illegal, that was the point of them. With deft fingers Penelo now sought out that device and readied her finger on the switch.

It was too early to activate the signal jamming right then; they weren't close enough to the enemy and might end up damaging their own ships who were providing covering fire as Vaan raced towards the yellow galleon.

Just when it looked like Vaan was intending to crash straight into the yellow galleon he wretched the Strahl up in a streaking arc, so that they rose above the galleon before the Rozzarians inside had time to lock on to them and shoot the Strahl from the sky.

' Whoooooohoooo...Now, Penelo.'

Vaan laughed as the Strahl performed a perfect loop-the-loop in the air above the yellow galleon before Vaan set the ship streaking like lightening across its outer shell. Penelo pushed her finger down on the button on the Noise Box.

Vaan didn't wait around to see if the signal jammer worked (Fran had once told Penelo that sometimes the Noise Box could jam other internal systems aside from the radar, like weapons controls) instead he flipped the Strahl upside down and retreated back, at sickening speed still flying upside-down, to the relative safety of the waiting beta squad.

'Beta squad come forward, alpha squad come back, let's show these Rozzarians what we're made of.' Vaan sounded exuberant as he swung the Strahl back around to face the Rozzarian ranks at the head of the re-constituted Dalmascan air guard.

The yellow galleon, which had broken formation and followed the Strahl, fired its cannons. Instead of hitting the Strahl or any of the Dalmascan squad the firing mechanisms failed within the galleon and caused a backfire that blew the ship apart. The Noise Box had worked perfectly.

Penelo bit down on her lip in horror as she watched the yellow ship explode in a halo of fiery orange flame and black smoke, raining bits of debris onto the desert below. Penelo had taken life and been party to the taking of life but she would never be able to be so easy with war and fighting as Vaan was.

Grinning like a maniac Vaan yelled out the order to advance and the whole of the Dalmascan fleet leapt into the fray; Dalmasca having drawn first blood.

The advantage was short lived. It seemed to take only the blink of an eye for the rest of the Rozzarian fleet to be on top of them and the sky to be thick with bright stripes of yellow (bullets and incendiary shells) and black acrid smoke.

Penelo, watched the radar and shouted co-ordinates and warnings of pursuit to Vaan, as well as warnings to other ships in their squads.

She tried not to think too hard about the blue dots that winked out of existence every time the big Rozzarian fighter galleons opened fire with a cannonade volley. She tried not to think of the dots as ships and the ships being piloted with people. Dalmascan's like her, maybe even people she knew.

She also tried hard not to think about the people inside the Rozzarian ships as she pressed the button on the Noise Box again and again, or fired up the small, but surprisingly accurate, rapid fire cannon on the Strahl. The Strahl, herself, under Vaan's hands, zipped in and out of the enemy lines with the agility of a buzzing Mosquito.

Just when Penelo was beginning to think the only things that existed in all Ivalice were fire and cannon blasts and the bone cracking snapping sound of bullets shot from glider mounted gun turrets, a voice crackled over the communications array.

'People of Dalmasca this is Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca.'

Penelo blinked, startled to hear Ashe's voice, cold and commanding but somehow still welcome, come over the speakers. Beside her, as the Strahl skirted around the bulk of the Bahamut, she heard Vaan suck in a breath of surprise.

'Whoa.'

Penelo looked up sharply and felt her own mouth drop open in shock as the Bahamut, black, ugly and dead, rising out of the sands in the dying daylight, suddenly lit up; orange light tracing up its metallic walls like veins of sulphurous blood.

Again Penelo realised that Ashe was talking, and though her words were distorted and hissing with static, Penelo felt herself sit up straighter in her chair as the pure, almost icy, strength and determination in Ashe's voice rushed like cool water through her veins.

Vaan pulled the Strahl away from Bahamut as, staring with gaping mouth, caught between horror and amazement, Penelo craned her neck to look out the side windows as the Bahamut's massive, horrid, central cannon extended from the monstrous tower.

'Whoa, she's going to blow.'

Vaan swiftly pushed the Strahl out of the way as Ashe's voice, sharp and fierce as an eagle's cry, ripped through the static of the communications signal at the same time that a beam of pure, blue-white light tore free of the Bahamut's cannon.

'I am Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca and I defy any god who would harm my people. I will strike down any who would take my home from me.'

Penelo remembered seeing that cannon in action before, when the blast had caused three of the Marquis Ondore's ships in his resistance armada to implode in fire and Mist.

She remembered how Balthier had pushed the Strahl through and under and around the falling, fiery debris and onwards towards the Bahamut, all covered in black, lightening filled Mist and danger.

Now that cannon did the same thing to the big, white galleon in the centre of the enemy fleet, slicing right through their protective ranks and blasting the white ship to pieces.

Ragged cheers came through the communication relay from the other squad leaders and Vaan turned again to grin at Penelo. 'Balthier and Ashe, it's got to be them. I knew they'd have a plan.'

Penelo could not feel as happy. She already saw the rest of the Rozzarian fleet immediate turn their guns and cannons on the stationary and surely more vulnerable target of the Bahamut.

'But Ashe is pregnant, how can she do this when she's pregnant?' Penelo whispered more to herself than Vaan, who was already shouting out orders to the rest of the fleet.

Penelo had respected Ashe, both as her Queen and as the slightly stand-offish, slightly bossy woman she had gotten to know when they'd all saved Dalmasca together, but she didn't think she would ever understand Ashe.

Penelo did not think she would ever take the risks Ashe now took had she been the one pregnant and, she thought slightly disapprovingly, she would hope that whoever her husband and the father of her children was would not expect her to, either.

There was no sound coming from the Bahamut, though the tower was now bristling like the stem of thorn bush with smaller gun turrets and cannon.

The Strahl and the rest of the Dalmascan guard fought the Rozzarian fleet and protected the Bahamut, pulling away when one or the other noticed the giant cannon firing up and shouted a quick warning through the communication relay to the rest of the squads. Penelo wondered, not for the first time since the battle had begun, if any of them would escape alive.

She was checking the radar screen for the placement of their squads when she suddenly noticed a large number of unidentified white dots coming towards Rabanastre from the north-east, the direction of Nalbina and the Highwaste.

'Vaan, turn about. There are ships coming in from the north.' She ordered him, already tapping in the co-ordinates from her control panel. Vaan didn't argue after he snuck a peak at the radar screen.

'This could be bad.' He muttered as the Strahl whipped around the Bahamut and back towards Rabanastre, the city still glowing like a magickal ball as the Paling held firm.

'They could be Bhujerban.' Penelo offered anxiously as the first of the ships appeared through the Strahl's windshield screen.

'That's not a Bhujerban ship.'

Vaan shook his head, squinting at the lead ship coming from the East at the head of a huge contingent of fighter gliders and battle galleons to rival the Rozzarian fleet.

The new airship was huge and slightly rounded, with fin-like protrusions that reminded her of the floating fiend fish that popped out of the sands along the Phon Coast. Even as Penelo completed the thought recognition blossomed in her mind, while Vaan experienced something similar sat beside her.

'_The __Alexander!' _Penelo and Vaan both yelled out in a mixture of shock and relief simultaneously.

They ended up both reaching for the communication relay to open a channel at the same time.

'Hey!' Vaan managed to win the brief scuffle for the speaker, 'This is Vaan, Captain of the Dalmascan Knights, what's the Alexander doing here?'

There was a pop and a pause as static crackled over the line and then a very welcome voice (at least to Penelo's ears) came over the line.

'Captain Vaan, this is Lord Larsa Solidor of the Archadian Empire.' Larsa sounded formal and very proper even over the static of the transmission.

'Archadia stands ready to assist the Lady Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, her Royal Highness, in the defence of her realm and the autonomy of her Kingdom.'

Vaan and Penelo shared a huge grin between them and Penelo leaned forward to speak through to Larsa through the communication array. 'Larsa thank the gods you're here. How did you get here so fast...how did you even know to come?'

It probably wasn't what she should have said, especially when Larsa was being so careful to be formal and correct, but Penelo had never been very good at all the pomp and properness of diplomatic language and she was too pleased to hear Larsa to much care.

'Penelo? By the gods, what in Ivalice are you doing here?'

It was only as the echo of Larsa's shock hissed over the static filled line that Penelo remembered she had left Archades without telling him. She flushed slightly, even though he couldn't see her, and ignored Vaan's suspicious frown.

'It's a long story Larsa, please just come help us. Ashe's in the Bahamut and the Rozzarians are firing on it.'

Another voice came over the line before Larsa could respond. Even as Zaagabaath began speaking the Archadian fleet moved forward.

Archadian gliders streamed around the Strahl towards the battle; Vaan opened a separate communications channel to warn the Dalmascan squads not to fire on the Archadians by mistake and Zaagabaath started asking questions.

'The Bahamut is active?' He sounded worried, but then five years ago he'd been prepared to ram his ship into the Bahamut to destroy it, so Penelo supposed the news might not please him.

'Yes, it's not flying but Ashe and Balthier have the guns and the cannons working.'

There was a long pause which carried noisily over the crackle and pop of static over the communications channel.

'...oh, well,...that...does not seem entirely prudent.' Larsa eventually responded straining even his ability to be even-handed about everything as the Alexander surged forward.

Vaan turned the Strahl about and led the way back to the dizzying, brilliant, violent sky battle being waged all around the Bahamut.

'Quickly drive them towards the Bahamut's cannons, the enemies flank is weakened.'

Penelo did not know the name of the squad leader whose command crackled over the communication relay and it did not matter as her heart jumped in dismay.

She and Vaan exchanged a frightened look as they both saw clearly that Bahamut had taken several hits and was swaying even as it stood.

Penelo, who had always hated the long shadow the Bahamut cast over her home, had never been more frightened of the huge tower, glowing with angry Mist power, than she was now.

Vaan shouted out against the order, warning the rest of the fleet that Ashe and Balthier were probably still inside. Penelo sucked in a sharp breath, they had not heard Ashe's voice in a while and the Bahamut was badly damaged.

_Please let them __be__ well...please. _

She didn't really know who she directed the prayer too. It didn't seem right to be praying to Faram, especially when the Rozzarians said Faram had sent them against Ashe and Dalmasca, but she prayed anyway.

'...Vaan!...'

Even over the heavy static Balthier's voice was unmistakable. Penelo felt her breath rush out of her in sheer relief. She knew, absolutely knew, that if Balthier was alive then so was Ashe, even if she wasn't talking.

Balthier snapped out orders to Vaan to protect the Bahamut and Penelo readied the Noise Box, then thought better of it when she realised that it might affect the transmission from the Bahamut.

'By all that's holy!'

The exclamation was echoed by so many people over the communication relay between the Dalmascan, Archadian, and newly arrived Bhujerban fleet, that it was impossible to know who spoke first.

Penelo could only gape in a mixture of awe and horror as the Bahamut, whipping up a huge cloud of ionised sand and dust, rose from the ground, orange Mist light haloing the dark tower as it began moving away from the city.

'It was falling...so he made it fly...' Vaan whispered answering the question Penelo had not had time to think, let alone, speak.

'Balthier's going to fly the Bahamut away from the city.'

'But what about him and Ashe?' Penelo grabbed hold of Vaan's chainmail wrapped arm.

The last time Balthier tried to fly the Bahamut away from Rabanastre they all thought he and Fran had died.

Following the Bahamut, which moved so fast, she had forgotten how fast it could fly, all shrouded in evil black clouds and Mist, Vaan kept trying to hail Balthier and received no response.

There was a huge hole in the outer wall of the Bahamut and pieces fell to the desert as they watched. Penelo felt sick. She was afraid history was repeating itself.

'Balthier, I repeat, Balthier Bunansa, this is Larsa Solidor can you hear me? Where is the lady Ashe? Is she aboard Bahamut with you? I repeat, where is the Lady Ashe?'

Larsa, in the Alexander, had started to follow the Bahamut but he did not get any response from Balthier. Penelo began to wonder if something had gone horribly wrong. She had seen some of the hits the Bahamut had taken; was Balthier hurt or worse, had Ashe been hurt?

Penelo could not bite back a scream when one of the Rozzarian ships broke free of the Bhujerban ships fencing it in and started firing on both the Bahamut and the Strahl. Vaan had no choice but to pull up and away as a cannonade blast ripped through the sky fortress, bursting in one side and out the other.

Almost in tears Penelo watched the Bahamut begin to fall towards the ground, like a cloud falling to the sands, crackling with fire and black smoke.

Vaan twisted the Strahl about face and raced towards the enemy ship, Penelo kept the Strahl's gun sights locked and did not need to be told when to fire. She felt a huge maw of anger and terror inside her, eating her up inside, as the Bahamut continued to sink without a word from Ashe or Balthier.

'Wow, who is that?'

Vaan gaped as another ship, a grey, dull, unmarked ship that looked like the Strahl, but without all the pretty decoration, tore through the sky to help fight off the Rozzarian galleon.

'This is Fran, who helms the Strahl?' Fran's crisp, musical voice echoed over the communication line.

'Fran! It's us, it's Vaan and Penelo. Balthier and Ashe are on Bahamut but they won't answer.' Penelo could not keep the joy and relief from her voice as the unmarked ship swiftly soared towards the slowly falling, but still moving, Bahamut.

Vaan swiftly flew after Fran's ship. Penelo clenched her fists and waited for some news to crackle over the communications array as the soggy Giza Plains sped past underneath them towards the hilly grasslands of the Ozmone Plains.

'Fran...dock with Bahamut...she's in the wall space...can't keep Bahamut afloat...she'll not go down gracefully this time...labour started...twins...'

Penelo did not know what was worse, the hissing static distorting Balthier's words or the terrible dragging, slurring weakness in his voice. He sounded terribly, terribly hurt.

Another chilling realisation hit her. 'Labour? Gods Vaan, he means Ashe.'

Penelo was nearly thrown back into her seat as Vaan shoved the Strahl forward aiming for one of the damaged docking ports still accessible in the ruined upper levels of the Bahamut.

'I'm on it.' Vaan hissed firmly with the confidence that came from a life spent not thinking things through, but for once Penelo was one hundred percent behind him.

The Bahamut was so unstable that when Vaan managed to get the Strahl level with the docking hatch (the docking clamps long since fallen away) the whole tower shuddered and rocked in flight, buffeted by the presence of the Strahl against it.

'Penelo take the helm and hold her steady, I'll go get Ashe and Balthier.'

Vaan didn't give her chance to argue as he leapt up from the pilot's chair and ran down the cockpit towards the entrance hatch.

It was not easy getting the Strahl tucked in against the Bahamut as the great monstrous fortress drifted down towards the ground and wavered from side to side.

Once or twice Penelo was forced to steer the Strahl away from the side of the Bahamut as the fortress veered into the smaller ship almost nudging against the Strahl. Had that happened the Strahl would have been crushed in an instant.

Penelo was fighting back tears of frustration and effort when she saw Vaan appear outside the outer bulkhead door of the Bahamut, Ashe in his arms, but without Balthier. Already she feared the worst as she forced the Strahl as close to the docking ledge of the Bahamut as she could and extended the boarding ramp.

'...Balthier!...Balthier answer me...!'

Vaan had to fight Ashe to get her into one of the passenger seats. Penelo winced each time Ashe screamed out Balthier's name, choking on hysterical sobs. She was filthy and bloody and white as death.

Vaan met Penelo's questioning eyes as she struggled to hold the Strahl steady against the wildly unstable Bahamut. Already she could see the Soghurt Ravine racing towards them as the Ozmone Plains were split in half by the rushing river.

Where was Balthier? Was he coming or was he...?

Vaan shook his head, eyes cloudy and mouth tight. Penelo swallowed hard on the heavy lump that formed in her throat (it couldn't be. It just couldn't.)

Ashe was quieter, strapped into one of the passenger seats, her eyes rooted out of one of the porthole windows. Vaan took his pilot's chair back and by unspoken agreement Penelo went to Ashe.

The ordinary people of Rabanastre (the ordinary people Penelo came from and whom she still thought she belonged with) said that the Lady Ashe was made of fire and ice. They said that she came back from the dead not as a normal hume but as a Dynast deity, full of righteous fury and power to deliver Dalmasca from occupation.

Many believed her to be Raithwall reincarnated in a different form, something like a guardian goddess, or an Esper spirit made flesh and blood. They didn't believe her to be capable of weakness.

Penelo was one of the few people who had proof that this wasn't true. Ashe was just a Hume like anyone of them, just as capable of getting things wrong and being bad or good or lazy or stupid. Yet despite this, Penelo, too, liked to believe that Ashe was something strong and indomitable.

So watching the Bahamut fall down into the ravine, watching the top and bottom of the massive tower crumble and shatter against the cliff face, watching chunks of the horrible thing fall all the way down into the waters and knowing that a friend was in there, Penelo had never been more afraid.

She watched Ashe stare out of the window at the destruction of the Bahamut without making a sound, even her tears drying on her lifeless, bloodless cheeks, and felt truly fearful. Her Queen's eyes were lifeless and glazed, staring listlessly out of the window as she shook and shivered and rocked against the pain in her body, but never once uttered a word.

Penelo, having nothing else she could give Ashe and no means to make things right, wrapped her arms around her Queen, and her friend, as Vaan steered the Strahl away and back towards Rabanastre.

Penelo whispered nonsense words meant to sooth, like you would to a child, into Ashe's hair as she held the labouring Queen in her arms and wondered what would happen to them all? Was this the end? Would they win this time like they had all the other times, or had they already lost?


	17. Chapter 17

**Rabanastre; The Palace**

_A/N: I'm changing my tenses about in this chapter, don't quite know why, it just seemed to make more sense this way. _

_Also, Navaratoiel……my neck is still bruised from the virtual choking!_

* * *

'Ashe? It's going to be alright, Ashe.'

The sounds of panic, running feet, being jolted in the arms of a man who was only a few inches taller than she was; the pain so intense, so well-established, she could no longer remember what life was without it.

'Ashe, hold on, hold on. We're nearly there.'

Fingers prodding her, hands groping her, being lifted onto a softer surface (a bed?) people, faceless pale blurs, running hither and thither in all directions. The shades of burnished gold slicing through the draperies at her balcony as daylight faded.

'Where is the midwife? Summon her immediately. Healers; we need healers. Her Majesty's blood pressure is dropping, she drifts away from us.'

A blonde shadow, the flair of pink silk sleeves; a voice she recognises at least and the clasp of a hand around her own. None of these gestures and intrusions welcome to her. The pain echoes in every heartbeat.

The Bahamut falling, toppling over the edge of the ravine, falling to pieces and skidding down the sides of the cliff face. She sees it again and again and she does not wish to see it any longer. There must be some respite, surely, from the pain, death and blood that appears to be her legacy.

'Ashe, please Ashe, say something.'

She does not want to hear anymore as the first cloud of healing magick envelops her; fingers of green-white energy trying to force her into wakefulness. She has had enough. She has given her all time and time again and received nothing but loss in exchange.

She falls wilfully into memory and dream; piercing the veil between real and imaginary, what was and what is. She seeks her loved ones. She goes home.

_Princess Ashelia was feeling intensely self-conscious. Across the round gilt patterned table her betrothed sat, hair shining in the Nabradian sun. On either side of the table, the brackets of this tableau, her two chaperones, Sir Azelas and Captain Basch. _

_It wasn't really necessary for her to have such an escort but she had all but begged Basch to come with her when she went to visit Rasler in his father's summer palace. _

_She was nervous, and wanted to take as many reminders of home and safety as she could, with her. Now she sat seething in hopeless self-reproach as her intended chatted amiably with her two protectors and she too tongue-tied and awed to utter a word. _

_She saw Basch cast the slightest of smiles her way her, his clear blue eyes flicking towards Rasler, a clear invitation and encouragement for her to enter the discussion, but she could not. What if what she said offended him? What if she misunderstood some pivotal point of reasoning and made a fool of herself?_

'_And my lady Ashe, what are your views?' _

_Horror of horrors Rasler turns to her; warm brown eyes, neat silvery hair, strong shoulders and proud carriage, his voice like velvet. _

_Ashelia shrinks away from answering truthfully, ignoring the numerous points of congress where her own thoughts diverge from his. She smiles tremulously. _

'_I am most impressed with your reasoning, my lord. I could add nothing to your argument.' _

_Both Vossler (she almost never calls him Sir Azelas except when trying to impress Rasler with her formal airs) and Basch each give her carefully veiled looks of surprise and amusement. They well know how vocal she usually is in any discussion. _

_However Rasler is smiling proudly at her, nodding his head, 'I am both flattered and heartened by your words my lady. I am confident we shall be well matched in all ways, our marriage singularly blessed.'_

'_Oh, yes,' Ashelia nodded enthusiastically, willing it to be a true forecast of their future as well as a genuine reflection of her feelings. 'I am sure you are right.' _

_Her mother (gods keep her soul in peace) and her beloved father had found love and fecundity in an arranged marriage, Ashelia at sixteen, and suddenly thrust into the position of heir apparent (poor Juan, it had broken father's heart when the sweating sickness took his last son last summer) was determined that she too would find love and happiness in her own arranged match. _

_She would be in love, fiercely and determinedly, with Rasler, by the time they married in six months, of this she had promised herself. She would remain in love and faithful to her husband and lord, as a wife should be, forever more. _

_She would do her duty and she would enjoy it, this she promised and assured herself as she smiled and nodded and listened to Rasler's plans and opinions and did not admit, even to herself, that she was not sure he was right, nor that his ideas were all that good. _

_She would not wish to think that of him, that he was fallible, because he was to be the man who would rule both their kingdoms upon the death of his father and hers (though the thought of such a bereavement was almost unconscionable to her). _

_Rasler had to be a good and clever king because Ashelia had no wish to shoulder the burden of leadership alone. _

_She was but a Princess, the baby of her family and a woman, it was not her duty to rule. It was her duty to provide heirs of the blood and support her husband. _

Dream fades with bitter golden edges. Angry, panicked and self-interested voices intrude upon the floating waves of nothingness that bear her aloft on a tide of bittersweet remembrance above the pain and ignominy of her life.

'We must consider caesarean, the infant might live.'

'Tnoy….how can you speak such? The Queen may survive the labour.'

'At the loss of a future king of Dalmasca and the Lady Ashe made barren? No, we cannot risk such a fate.'

'Tnoy, the Lady Ashe is a strong, young woman; there will be other children after this.'

'With another dead husband, Fidore? Bad enough the man was a filthy imperial, but that he should die before the succession is secure…'

'Both of you shut up!'

This new voice was a friend, sharp with anguish and fear. She felt saddened that Vaan should be brought low by these events, but could not really care too greatly.

'How dare you speak such to me boy? I am a minister of her Majesty's government, you are merely a servant guard of little repute.'

Tnoy's voice was grating on her nerves, what was left of them, beyond the omnipresent pain that flooded her senses. She felt distantly irritated by the pettiness of the men around her.

There was the slicing sound of a sword being withdrawn from a scabbard, shredding the atmosphere with the immediacy that only cold steel and death can bring.

'Yeah, but I'm the little guard with the big sword.'

She heard Vaan's grin in his voice. She almost smiled; she was mostly certain that he'd only become so bloodthirsty after too long in her service.

'_Vaan_ _stop it_. All of you stop it. All that matters is that Ashe and the baby pull through. Get out if you can't behave.'

Penelo, still squeezing her hand; it was good to know that not all who had gathered to watch her defeat were callow and worthless.

Faintly she wondered if she should tell them (those vultures) that she might be carrying twins?

No, no doubt that shall become obvious soon enough as it feels as though her babies are intent on kicking their way up through her chest, tearing free of her womb and grasping life with both hands.

She wishes them well; life was not all she had hoped it would be.

_Vaan and Penelo had wandered off to bed and the Whitecap Tavern was packed with filthy men in sweat stained leathers and women with rouged faces and buxom bosom. Ashe sat beside Basch across the splintered table from Balthier and Fran, idly she traced a pattern with one finger in the spill of ale across the table top. _

'_And you trust this friend of yours to give us safe passage to Golmore, Balthier?' Basch's rumbling voice startled her from her reverie and Ashe looked up to see how the pirate would respond._

_Balthier, clearly caught out in his own inattentiveness, took a moment to answer, both hands clasped around his tankard. 'I don't trust anyone, Captain. I find it saves time and disappointment in the long run.' _

_Balthier had not returned to his usual good cheer since their departure from Archades and had seemed to grow increasingly ill-spirited as the night drew on. Although Ashe really had no reason to pay the Pirate's moods much mind, she had found herself disconcerted. _

_Seeming to realise that his initial flippant response was not suitable in and of itself, Balthier, with almost unnoticeable prodding from Fran, elaborated._

'_Markas owes me a debt that he wants shot of, he'll see us to Golmore and say nothing of it to anyone. Of this I am certain.' _

_Ashe had nibbled her lip as silence fell on their melancholy quartet. She had watched Basch and Balthier drain their tankards in silence as Fran stirred her own, bright green and minty smelling, liqueur with one long clawed finger._

_For no real reason Ashe had decided to break the heavy pall of silence, ' Is that how you see the world, Pirate; is Ivalice nothing more to you than a seething pit of self-interest and cynical opportunists?' _

_Ashe had silently lamented her tone, both strident and accusatory. She could not seem to help it; even when she wished only to ask for knowings sake grief and bitterness had rubbed her vocal cords raw._

_Balthier smirked at her, but she had thought, just maybe, that the spark of mirth in his enigmatic and duplicitous brown eyes spoke of warmth and understanding._

'_A seething pit of self-interest and cynical opportunists, hmm?' He chuckled expansively glancing conspiratorially at Fran who tossed her hair from her face but gave no other reaction. _

'_That does sound an apt description for a current location, if nothing else.' He purred._

_Ashe had shaken her head, not wanting to be put off and side-lined by his wit. 'No, I wish to know; for I fail to see how you would ever wish to leave your airship if you truly have such low opinion of your fellow man.' _

_Sometimes Ashe wished she had died with her father and her husband. Sometimes it seemed to her that life was not worth its cost in blood and grief and pain. _

_Balthier had afforded her something passing a real smile; a merry grin, 'Maudlin tonight aren't you Princess, too much ale, perhaps?' _

_Basch was frowning from her to her empty tankard worriedly as Fran shook her head either disdainful of their hume games or in complacent indulgence of her partner. Ashe had felt her cheeks flush in anger._

'_Don't mock me.' She had retorted hotly. _

_Balthier had merely smiled, capricious and changeable as the sea breeze rattling the window panes, he had reached across the table, in full view of her Knight Protector, and clasped her hand as it rested on the sticky table. _

'_I would not dare, Princess.' _

'Sirs, I must speak to the Lady Ashe's next of kin or someone of her estate. We may have to perform a caesarean.'

She recognises the voice of the midwife, who, short hours prior, informed her that she carried twins (it was funny how dramatically and swiftly life could change).

'I am Secretary of State I….' She heard Tnoy begin in all his up-most pomposity distantly she wished Vaan would slit the man's throat.

'….and I am the Lady Ashe's uncle, blood kin. In lieu of her husband or the Lady Ashe herself I will protect her interests.'

She smiled, faintly; Penelo's hand still clamped uncomfortably tightly to her own and now, uncle Halim was here. She wished she could open her eyes to see her uncle; she had questions for him.

'In all due respect, Marquis, you do not have a say in the governance of this kingdom; this is a political matter.'

She felt Penelo's hand squeeze down on hers even more tightly, in reflex. She heard the rhythmic click of her uncle's cane upon the polished floor of her bedchamber.

'You _have_ no respect.'

Her uncle's voice is as bloodlessly controlled and steely as the day he presided in judgement over his deranged son Joaquin, who had tried to poison her uncle to death and plotted the assassination of Lord Larsa.

A moment later her uncle's hand, and strange that she should know it merely by the feel of his skin against her brow, stroked her cold, sweating forehead.

'You will do what so ever you can to ensure the safety of my niece, her Highness Ashelia, and her child. If the best course is caesarean then make ready for such, but only if such course is the best for all.'

'_It is the duty of a Queen to think always of the happiness of her people; to forge the best path forward for all.' _

_Ashe paced back and forward in her bedchamber crossing the shade of early morning sunlight that seeped in between her balcony curtains as she studied the manuscript of the new parliamentary Bill for an amendment to property rights that was to be discussed and possibly ratified later that day. She had many misgivings._

'_You will never please everyone Highness.' _

_Balthier, five months her husband, did not lift his head as he used tweezers to place the tiny pieces of mechanism into the fob watch he was repairing. _

'_I am aware of that.' She had snapped irritably. 'I am merely trying to do the right thing and am by no means sure _this,' _she had snapped the sheaf of papers in her hand in annoyance, 'is the right thing.' _

'_Then deny the Bill.' He had replied with utter lack of interest, exchanging tweezers for other tiny, delicate tools she did not know the names of, to wind and nudge the tiny cogs and mechanisms into place and order. _

'_I cannot simply throw out my councillor's Bills of law without just cause.' She had retorted, but not particularly angrily, as she became intrigued by what Balthier did. His hands were so steady, so sure in his actions, and the procedure so intricate. _

'_Why can't you?' Balthier had smirked, still keeping his eyes on his work, as she approached him and loosely draped her arms about his shoulders and rested her chin upon his head, the papers of the Bill discarded on the bed. 'You are the Queen after all, your word is law.' _

'_I have no desire to make myself a tyrant, Balthier.' _

'_Hmm, a pity that.' He had drawled lazily snapping shut the back of the watch with a certain satisfaction and beginning to wind up the mechanism. She watched the hands of the clock face twirl at speed around and around as he wound the watch. _

'_Decisive tyranny would make a change from constant procrastination. Watching you make up your mind is dull sport, Highness.' _

_Ashe had yanked on his pierced ear in retaliation, 'Sin in haste, repent in leisure Balthier. It does not do to rush into things.' _

_It had been one of her mother's favourite idioms and Ashe had heard it often in her rash and impetuous youth. Balthier set aside the watch and tilted his head up to look at her, wolfish smirk in place._

'_Nothing wrong with hasty sin, Highness, and I have always thought that I would sooner do my penance in relative leisure than in discomfiture.' _

_Ashe had leaned down to kiss his forehead and then waited for him to pull out the chair from the small table he had been using for his watch repairs so she could settle in his lap. _

'_You think I should withhold support for the land Bill?' _

_Balthier had stroked his fingers down her bare arm from elbow to wrist, tickling the sensitive skin at the bend of her elbow._

'_I think you should be rid of your entire cabinet; they should all be shot, but failing that,' he sighed in mock resignation when she gave him a sharp look, 'I think you should act on your own judgement. You have managed well enough until now.' _

'_Or perhaps my mistakes are merely taking their time to make themselves evident?' _

_She had countered feeling both contrary in the face of his confidence in her and worried about the endless weight of petty decisions she must always make. They fell upon her like a blizzard obscuring the way forward. _

'_And perhaps you are merely a contrary and indecisive woman, who appears bound and determined to ruin my morning.' _

_Balthier had pushed her from his lap and risen to his feet, his never very great patience seemingly at its end._

_Stretching languidly Balthier had tossed her a lazy smirk as he gathered up his tools and repaired watch and replaced them in the trunk he had brought with him from the Strahl, which held many of his personal affects._

'_Arise Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca,' he intoned, mocking the words of the late Gran Kiltias Anastasis, 'and make up your bloody mind.' _

She opened her eyes and rose up on her elbows, surging up like a Phoenix ascendant amid varied gasps and exclamations.

'Highness!'

'Niece.'

'Ashe, Ashe you're awake.'

Panting and soaked in sweat, her legs spread and knees tented under a thin sheet, she sees all those gathered in her most private of chambers in this most private of moments.

She sees the avarice on some faces, the plans for self advancement should she die, the naked fear and concern, mingled relief, on the faces of those three gathered who were dear to her. She felt her will gather within.

'Vaan.' Her voice is burnt earth and black ice, rubbed raw from pain and endurance. She stares into the eyes of the former cutpurse who has remained doggedly, idealistically, loyal, all these years.

'Arrest Secretary Tnoy, have him sequestered in Nalbina dungeon. He is a traitor.'

Vaan does not hesitate; his dagger is against the neck of the bulging eyed toad-like man before he can formulate response. Her chancellor Fidore begins to back away, hoping to remain unnoticed.

'Chancellor Fidore, return to your home and do not leave it until I give you leave, disobey and you too will be forfeit as a traitor.'

The effort to talk is transcendent agony, she clutches onto the hands that hold her own, one belonging to her uncle, the other belonging to the girl who started out as nothing more than the friend of a street thief but who might yet rise to be the greatest woman in an empire, as tightly as she can. It feels as if she might shatter into pieces at any moment.

She turns to face her uncle, 'What news of Balthier?'

'His partner and Sir Fon Ronsenberg search the Bahamut still; he will be found, I assure you.'

She nods her head, _he will be found, but will he be found alive?_ She seeks out the grave eyes of the midwife and Palace physician.

Imperiously she waves them forward, both having previously fled to the corners of the chamber when politics intruded upon the birthing.

'Physician, my mother bore nine children of her body without the need of the knife. I will bear my children thus. Instruct me.'

And then the pain comes in earnest as Vaan and other loyal guardsmen force her treacherous councillors from the chamber. Penelo chases from the room all but those needed either in the operation of the labour or to give her support.

All the while she clutches at her uncle's hand and listens to Penelo's words of encouragement and when the pain and the fear and the humiliation of her circumstances, the dependency on strangers, the doubt that her babies will not be large and strong enough to live long outside her body, becomes too much she sinks once more into memory and dream.

_Ashe knew that she should have removed the large portrait of Rasler that hung from her bedchamber wall. It was inappropriate, insensitive, perhaps, to keep mementos of that first marriage in the chamber she now shared with her second husband._

_Though Balthier had never said a word nor given any sign that he bore the portrait any mind. It did not seem to bother him that she still wore her old wedding band and Rasler's on her fingers. _

_It concerned her, however, and she blamed lingering guilt (though about what she was not completely sure) for her nightmare. _

_Rising from the nightmare of which she remembered only the sense of oppressive guilt, sorrow and shame that had pervaded her slumbering mind, she had selfishly shaken Balthier awake._

_Decidedly peevish (he slept no more than five hours a night but was covetous of those hours and did not like to be disturbed) Balthier had blinked up at her owlishly._

'_What is it?' _

'_You must not die. You must never die for me or Dalmasca. You must promise this to me.' She had demanded, even as she felt her cheeks flair with shame for being an over-emotional, silly girl. _

_Balthier had cocked an eyebrow in surprise, propping himself up on an elbow and taking the time to scrap his hair from his brow as he woke up enough to think on his vanity._

'_I had not planned on any such thing, Highness. I enjoy a spot of heroism as much as the next man, but martyrdom would not suit me, I fear.' _

'_I never want to go through that again.' Ashe had wiped at her tears, trying to control herself and failing._

'_Promise me I shall never have to see them bring your lifeless corpse home to me. There is no honour in death and too many who I have trusted have betrayed me by dying. I forbid you from doing that to me.' _

_She had resisted when he sat up against the head-board and attempted to put his arms around her but then relented, wondering at her own mind and feelings. Tomorrow, she had promised herself, she would remove Rasler's picture, having it placed somewhere in prominence in a room that she spent little time alone in. _

'_You are in quite a state, aren't you, Ashe. Bad dreams?' Despite his words Balthier did not sound as condescending as she might have expected, he looked at her gravely. 'You have been thinking of the Prince again I wager.' _

_She had merely nodded; there had seemed little point in denying it. _

'_He hurt you badly, didn't he? Running off to die for king and country?' Balthier had mused thoughtfully, rubbing a hand against his unshaven chin. _

'_He did his duty; I have no recourse to be angry with him.' She had said softly, realising that despite her words anger was the greatest emotion she associated with his memory. _

'_Except dying,' Balthier had countered, slyly, seeing right through her. 'He chose a futile battle and meaningless death over life at your side and left you to pick up the pieces.'_

_Balthier watched her keenly, even as she watched him, his thoughts twisting and turning behind his eyes._

'_Hmm, I think I see it now. Alright Highness, I promise that you will never watch me die. You will never bury me. I will never die on you, but instead will outlive you and inherit your kingdom so that I can run it into rack and ruin, fair enough?' _

_Ashe had smiled despite herself, ignoring the dark humour and seeking the honesty in his sardonic eyes. He had promised and he would not lightly break a promise. _

In the present she smiled, through tears and blood and confusion, through a feeling of wrenching, grinding agony, being split apart at the seams, she smiled. It would be well because she would make it so.

'Oh, oh, a girl…it's a girl.' Penelo, cooing in her ears, but it wasn't over yet. She could not rest yet.

'Push, my child, you are almost there,' her uncle, undone with emotion, 'How proud your father would be now, Ashe; your mother as well.'

'A head, your Majesty, I see a head, just a little more, almost there.'

A promise was a promise was a promise, a childish saying, but there was strange truth to it. She could not know what the new dawn would bring, triumph and ruin danced on the night breeze side by side, she would simply have to live through it to find out.

'A boy…..it's a boy…..you have a set, Ashe, a full set.' Penelo laughed somewhere above her but then her tone changed slightly, 'But they're both so small….'

'We'll pop them in a Bubble Spell; that will sort them out.' The Midwife, bright and dark and hearty passed by the bed, a tiny bundle wrapped in blue wool in her arms, 'Well done, your majesty, all will be well now.'

She smiles through her tears and thinks that the midwife is right, all would be well, she had done it and tomorrow life would start again, difficult and unknowable, filled with threats and unexpected opportunities and she will be right here to see in the new dawn.

She will be right here to chastise him (how dare he crash the Bahamut again! Did the man never learn?) when Balthier walks through her bedchamber door, of this she is certain.

* * *

_A/N: okay, so it's a tiny little bit of a cop out. I couldn't work out how to write a labour scene when I've only ever seen them on TV……here's hoping it wasn't too corny. ;)_


	18. Chapter 18

**The Ozmone Plains; wreckage of the Bahamut**

Throughout the long fall from grace he had taken aboard the Bahamut Balthier had kept waiting, time unable to catch up with the blur of rushing air and fast approaching doom, to die.

Or at the very least lose consciousness.

He thought that the least he was owed was the right to be insensate when he was simultaneously drowned and crushed on impact.

Instead he was excruciatingly aware of every thunderous jolt and judder as the mile high Bahamut wedged itself between the two opposing cliff faces of the ravine and fell apart in slow segments to splash into the river.

Dangling from one of the control consoles, the entire control deck section of the Bahamut now horizontal, the hole in the wall of the deck now a hole in the floor right below him, Balthier realised he had two choices.

He could jump down into the water from the deck or wait, clinging to the control panel like a fungal growth, for the Bahamut to crumble to pieces and then fall with it.

He was, it seems, caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Fall now or fall later either way the outcome would be the same.

Balthier dearly wished for unconsciousness, at least that way he could face death with equanimity (now that he was assured of Ashe's safety he found his previous gung-ho attitude towards altruistic suicide ebbing rapidly…..he wanted to live, damn it!).

He was still cursing his lack of fortune (why couldn't he have been thrown into a wall or some such and received some manner of relatively painless instant death, why did he have to face his mortality with open eyes?) when a shower of dust and corkscrew twists of metal began raining down on his head.

_Oh, jolly good. Now the ceiling is about to fall upon me. _

Balthier did not dare move too much, clinging crab-like to the console; and his head hurt in a manner that while not too monstrous was slightly concerning, therefore he struggled gracelessly to look up to see what calamity was about to befall him.

_Oh, bollocks!_

Balthier reacted instantly, rolling off the console as the metal shell of the Bahamut wall currently acting as ceiling split apart under a deluge of rocks and bounders and gods knew what else.

Balthier was too busy falling to see the destruction of the console he had been perched on moments earlier.

His descent was not comfortable as he bounced and tumbled down the metal floor (ceiling, wall? The exact dynamics of the control deck too distorted to hold firmly in mind.) He crashed into one of the bolted down chairs by another console, the force of the impact with the steel chair stealing his breath.

Reflexively he made a grab for the chair but missed and continued to tumble downwards amidst a hail of rubble and debris. It was both remarkable and decidedly unreasonable that he was still alive and conscious.

Why was it that nothing was ever simple? He had planned a heroic death in defence of wife and family and instead ended up rolling about in the possibly indestructible remains of the Bahamut.

He came to a crunching stop when he hit the current floor of the control deck, not far from the huge cannon blast hole.

_Hmm, still not dead. _

A cursory check revealed that he was still in possession of all major pieces of his anatomy and although his chest screamed in pain, his arms and legs and spine appeared to be functioning normally.

As the dust and debris settled about him Balthier crawled over to the hole and peered down at the river bank and the rushing, gun metal grey water, whipped up in white surf, surging below him. The river bed studded with sharp jutting dark rocks, like the points of waiting teeth far below him.

Hmm, his options were improving by the moment. He could make a sixty foot drop into a fast running river and hope that he somehow missed the various and sundry rocks, or he could wait to be crushed by falling pieces of the Bahamut.

Or was there another option?

Balthier looked up speculatively at the new hole in the shell of the Bahamut that was letting in the purple shades of twilight; he could see the sky.

He then looked to the evenly spaced solid steel chairs and consoles bolted to the (former) floor, and currently forming a rather convenient collection of hand and foot holds one could use to scale the deck and reach that hole.

His dramatic fall within the Bahamut had been witnessed by numerous Archadian, Bhujerban and Dalmascan pilots, not to mention Fran. Surely, considering his reputation for surviving calamity where he had no business doing so, they would still be out there, perhaps waiting for a sign that he had survived?

It was slow, painful, arduous work climbing back up the deck. Had it not been for adrenalin and a healthy dose of self-interest (altruism was not a favoured state of being for Balthier and he recanted previous statements regards a willingness to die for a good cause) he would never have been able to make the climb.

He could feel his ribs scratching against the unprotected pink of his lungs, bones shattered in the cage of his chest. There was also an uncomfortable sense of something being loose and ill-fitting in his head. His right temple throbbed and the right side of his face, cheek and jaw, felt decidedly unhinged.

Still, he was alive, which was infinitely preferable to the alternative. If he could only reach the top of the Bahamut he might be well on his way to rescue.

_Damn……._

Clambering up to the top and out of the jagged edges of the new hole torn through the Bahamut's shell (and it was strange that the final destruction of the Bahamut should invoke such mixed emotions, part relief and part regret) and poking his head out of the hole, Balthier looked up at the purple-black sky expecting to see at least a scattering of airships.

He was thusly disappointed.

It took more effort than was pretty to haul himself up on the outer shell of the Bahamut and for an indeterminate period of time he merely lay prostrate across the pitted, bullet riddled metal, trying to breathe without puncturing his lungs on the cracked edges of his ribs.

Had he given such a spectacular performance of heroic self sacrifice that even Fran had abandoned him to his fate? The thought was disconcerting, not to mention somewhat disheartening, certainly had their positions been reversed he would not have been so swift to abandon her.

Well, regardless, it looked as though he would have to complete the rescue of himself by himself, which was nothing less than the expected fate of the leading man.

Balthier was forced to belly crawl (and yes, that was as exquisitely painful as one might imagine) along the uneven, hole-ridden outer shell of the Bahamut, aiming for the craggy rock face and the safety of the Ozmone Plains above.

He had managed to wriggle his way half way to the cliff face when his body gave up the ghost.

Bloody phlegm coated his chin from his mouth as he coughed and struggled to breathe. It hurt intolerably to lie on his chest and, heedless of his precarious balance, Balthier pitched himself over onto his back, which was marginally (though the difference was almost negligible) less painful.

Lying blinking numbly up at the stars twinkling into existence above his head in the inky quilt of the early night sky, Balthier contemplated giving up. He'd pushed himself to his physical limits both in an attempt, first die heroically, and then to avoid said fate and continue living, now he was merely exhausted.

Live or die he did not care as long as neither required him to move.

A dark shadow, darker than the winking starlight, fell upon him and Balthier opened one eye a crack and then opened both his eyes fully as the belly of the unmarked aircraft that had aided the Strahl against the yellow galleon, floated above him obscuring his view.

A hatch opened in the bottom of the keel and, as Balthier watched woozily, a tall, lithe figure with a mane of silvery hair that caught the moonlight, descended from a cable from the hatch down towards him.

With the snap of a taut cable and the click of double heeled metal boots landing on the shell of the Bahamut on either side of his chest, Balthier found himself looking all the way up at Fran from between her legs.

It was unfortunate that Balthier was in too much pain to appreciate the arresting view (though it did bring back memories of their earlier, wilder, days before they both realised that they were too much alike and too fond of each to ruin their partnership with anything so transient as sex) instead he simply closed his eyes in anticipation of a respite from the pain.

'Balthier?' Fran cocked her head to the side and looked down at him from her lofty height.

He managed to lift one hand up in an airy wave and cough, wetly, '…..ribs….'

Fran crouched above him, perfectly balanced on the edge of the Bahamut. She whispered a healing incantation and placed her hands against his torso. Her long hair tickled his face as she leant above him.

Balthier groaned with the sheer pleasure of being able to breathe without pain and wiped at his mouth distastefully. Fran caught hold of his face and jerked his head to the left suddenly.

It was only as her claw tips grazed gently over his right cheek and up into his hairline near his ear, that Balthier remembered the blood and sharp, lightening pain that had grazed his temple during the Bahamut flight.

He had dismissed it as a superficial injury (head wounds always bled profusely, particularly the shallow ones) now he wondered if it was so superficial.

'Balthier can you hear me?' Fran released his head, her fingers coming away blood slicked.

Balthier frowned quizzically at Fran, 'Of course.' He was having troubles speaking and breathing but his hearing was perfectly fine. 'Why?'

In answer Fran turned his head again, magick playing at the ends of her fingertips as she stroked the line of his cheek and jaw and brushed against the hot throbbing pain of the deep graze across his temple.

'A bullet has marked you. The gods smile on you it seems, so close to piercing your skull instead of merely stroking the bone.'

'I am feeling immensely blessed right now.' Balthier mumbled irritably and deeply sarcastic, the less said about the gods and their messengers the better as far as he was concerned.

'Why did you question my hearing?' He tried to reach up to probe his right temple and the side of his head with his own hands swiftly Fran slapped his fumbling fingers away.

'Your right ear is damaged; healing magicks will dull the pain but cannot restore the flesh.'

'What?'

Balthier immediately reached for his ear once more and this time Fran let him. Beyond the tacky, sticky mass of blood and pulp that covered the right side of his face and neck and made him grimace with distaste, Balthier felt out his ear.

His fingers caught upon the blood slicked twist of metal lodged in his right earlobe, all things seemingly as they should be. Tentatively, watching Fran's impassive features as she watched him, he reached up to follow the rim of his ear upwards. He expected to feel the cuffs of metal adorning the curve of his ear and came up short.

Instead of the expected fleshy round of ear Balthier could feel only the tattered, throbbing, stinging rind of part of an ear. He was missing the top portion of his bloody ear!

'Do not fret the wound, you risk infection.' Fran plucked his hands from their shocked exploration in gentle chiding.

'Do not fret? Fran, I am missing an ear.' He was decidedly distraught.

This was the first time he had ever staggered a hairbreadth away from calamity to find himself missing a part (albeit a relatively minor part) of his anatomy. Dear gods what must he look like, a man with only one ear?

'It is not so bad as seems; the wound is of the flesh only, not the inner workings. You have survived with remarkably little ill-affect, another victory for the leading man.'

She smiled at him caustically then shifted to allow him to sit up slowly, ribs repaired for the most part, but his body was still aching and sore and likely would be for some time to come.

'Tell that to the remnants of my ear.' He muttered churlishly.

Fran wisely ignored him as she wrapped rope about his mid-rift and helped him in the slow, arduous progress of staggering to his feet without falling off the Bahamut. Although no longer in so much pain he could barely think, he was now more aware of the low level lacerations, bruises and strains of his abused body.

Fran took him firmly in her arms as he wrapped his own weakened arms around her and someone in the unmarked airship hovering above them began to winch them both up and away from the Bahamut's final resting place.

'By the gods Balthier, was one crash landing in that monstrosity not enough for you?'

Balthier, sucking in gulps of air on hands and knees (the winching rope and unsteady ascent had done little for his recovering ribs or the throbbing in his ears….or rather what was left of his right ear that had become persistently more noticeable now he knew what had happened), looked up at the not particularly welcome sight of Basch Fon Ronsenberg, dressed in rustic fashion in surcoat and gherkin and still wearing the sanctimonious look of disapproval he had adopted for all their previous conversations.

'Hello, your honour fancy meeting you here. Fran, I did not know you liked to take your _pets_ with you on rescue missions.' Balthier wheezed cheerfully, he did not bother to try and stand, his dignity would not survive if he fell over in front of Basch.

Basch ignored the insult (as did Fran) and reached out to haul Balthier to his feet. To his great chagrin Balthier could not bite back the groan that escaped him as he staggered to up.

All of a sudden he felt he could really do with a large, stiff, drink; or three.

After Fran had disengaged herself from the ropes and cables she untied him and led the way, Basch putting away the winch and pulley and sealing the hatch, into the main gangway and cockpit of the vessel.

If it wasn't for the fact that the smell of disuse hung heavy in the air and the ship lacked any adornment or decorative features, Balthier might have believed he was aboard the Strahl, so similar was this ship.

'Fran what is this ship?'

He was mightily curious as he tottered, carefully and gingerly, into the cockpit with the same lay-out of six seats in two rows and porthole windows level with each seat that the Strahl had.

'It is merely a ship that could be found at short notice for a rescue.'

Fran replied seated at the pilot's chair as he tapped at the walls and stroked a hand over the (no doubt original manufacturer's upholstery) seats covetously.

The Strahl was an old girl, her make something of a vintage (and much sought after) relic to a time when aeronautical engineer's cared as much for the aesthetics as they did the performance and each airship was a work of art. Ships that this simply were not built anymore.

Balthier quirked an eyebrow, momentarily forgetting his ear, his filthy state of dress, his general discomfort, as he absorbed the ambiance of the ship. '_Found?_ Found how?'

Fran's voice gave nothing away, but he read in the flicker of her long fingers over the rusted and ill-cared for (but still delightful original fixtured) control panel, a certain sense of amusement and pleasure. 'The ship has an owner.'

A vague sense of disappointment sifted through Balthier's careful cataloguing, in the part of his mind that was always capable of ignoring discomfort and misery of any given moment in favour of flights of fantasy, of all the improvements he could make to the lovely vessel.

'Is he of a mind to sell?' Balthier asked keenly, clearly the ship's owner had no concept of the treasure he had in his possession or he would have taken better care of her.

Basch had chosen that moment to enter the cockpit, 'Can you think of nothing else than petty trifles, Balthier? Does Ashe's well-being mean nothing to you?'

_Ashe……_

The name jarred through the happy bubble of shock he had been cheerfully residing in with such force that Balthier could feel the blood rush from his head in a cold sweep.

_Ashe……and the babies……_

He looked swiftly to Fran, ignoring the Knight-Magister (or whoever or whatever he was at this moment, the man had more aliases than Balthier himself). Fran caught his look and the earnest question behind it. She nodded a glimmer of supportive warmth in her red irises.

Balthier gripped the back of the pilot's seat for an entirely differently reason, closing his eyes for a moment and gathering his thoughts in sheer relief.

'I have had a trying few hours, Captain. Forgive me if I have not shown enough due care and emotion for your liking, sir.' He snarled at Basch.

For his part Basch nodded gruffly and said no more in criticism. Fran put the airship in gear and Balthier noted that the vessel moved with considerably more finesse and grace than his cantankerous and beloved Strahl.

'The children?'

Balthier forced himself to verbalise the question sometime later, sitting with his head in his hands (careful not to poke either deliberately, or accidentally, at his ravaged right ear) and ignoring all rules of good posture.

He could feel Basch's eyes on him even though he did not lift his head. He was suddenly intolerably tired; he could barely keep upright. 'Ashe was in labour, somewhat prematurely I might add, is there word?'

He could not bring himself to ask any more specific questions. He feared the answers and now he was safe, life assured, he did not think he had the fortitude for bad news.

Sweet gods, what would happen if Ashe miscarried of her children (their children), what if she had haemorrhaged? What if there had been complications? Had Ashe survived the premature labour?

Balthier scratched at his hair, head in hands, and squeezed his eyes tight closed; he willed the questions away. It did no good to torment himself with such thoughts. He would soon know in any event.

A large, rough hand caught his shoulder and shook him gently. Balthier jerked out of his misery and looked up, startled. Basch was staring at him intently, leaning forward across the aisle from the opposite seat.

'Balthier, are you well?'

'Hmm?' He frowned at the man, 'Does it _look_ as if I am well?'

Basch studied him curiously, then drew back and nodded to himself. Balthier had the uncomfortable feeling that Basch knew something he didn't, or knew something that he didn't want him to. Either way it did nothing to reassure him.

'We received word from Dalmasca shortly before catching sight of you climbing out of the Bahamut's wreckage.' Basch's weathered face was suddenly, incongruously, wreathed in a large and happy grin, 'Ashe has been delivered of a baby boy and girl. They are small but all appears well.'

Balthier's cool, analytical mind filled away that key information without troubling to emote. Likely it would be too taxing to untangle the thorn forest of conflicting emotion sifting under the surface of his thoughts, in reaction to the news, and he simply did not have the energy.

'And Ashe?' He pressed without any outward change in demeanour. Basch again returned to looking faintly disapproving before answering.

'The labour was difficult, so Penelo has said, but Ashe is strong and is said to be resting comfortably with no ill affect.'

Balthier was briefly side-tracked by news of Penelo; what was their little would-be emperor's concubine doing back in Dalmasca to be attendant for the birth? Then he dismissed that line of questioning (after all, despite a spotty memory of the battle before he crashed the Bahamut, Balthier was almost sure Larsa and the Archadian fleet had arrived inexplicably from nowhere, so Penelo's appearance was not particular peculiar).

Instead, like a Lobo scenting a trail, Balthier hounded Basch on other matters, 'There was no bleeding after delivery, no tearing within?'

Balthier (who was then Ffamran) had been born some eight weeks premature (just two weeks later than Ashe's babes had torn their way out of her womb) and had ripped his mother to pieces; the midwives in attendances to busy fussing over the infant Ffamran to notice his mother silently bleeding to death in her bed.

It was Fran (who knew in a round about way all there was to know about him) that answered. 'She is carefully observed by her attendants; fear not, her care is not remiss.'

Balthier nodded slightly, which hurt his head, and lapsed into silence (possibly losing consciousness for all the awareness he had of his environment). He drifted in a relatively painless haze, his thoughts unravelling and meandering along.

_A baby boy and a baby girl……well, at least with a full set we shall never have to go through this unpleasantness again, assuming the newborns survive. Good gods, I hope Ashe doesn't call the boy Rasler, or Raminas. _

'…..Are we still at war?' Balthier roused himself from semi-slumber but did not open his eyes.

He could all but feel the bruises and welts forming across his chest and torso. Internally he was healed, but the superficial wounds would annoy him for some days. He knew without bothering to pick apart the blood and filth caked ragged ends of his clothing that his torso was black and blue already.

'No,' Basch answered the question that Balthier had nearly forgotten having asked, 'The combined allied forces of Dalmasca, Archadia and Bhujerba routed the Rozzarian fleet, a hundred men have been captured and the rest of the fleet fled back into Rozzaria.'

'Hmm.'

Balthier tried to roll his head on his shoulders, attempting to alleviate the strange, almost obscene, feeling that his head was in some way broken. His cranium felt (and probably had the appearance of) a shattered egg.

_A little girl? I wonder will she have her mother's features? _

With the fussy, ill-tempered motions of someone mildly concussed and suffering from shook without knowing it, Balthier's fingers fretted with the tattered edges of his right ear. The oozing scabbed frill of flesh that remained burned and stung as his fingers worried the wound.

Thick, viscous blood and gore had clumped and congealed inside the well of his ear, muffling his hearing. Balthier might have picked out the blockage with his fingers had that not been beneath his dignity.

With little to do but ache, feel sorry for himself or engage Basch in conversation, none of the above options being overly appealing, Balthier subsided into sleep. Or tried to; impolitely Fran and Basch decided to have a conversation while he (an invalid in need of rest) tried to sleep.

'Is it wise that he sleeps? He has numerous contusions to the head.'

'Balthier is hard-headed; he is hurt, but not so badly as might have been. He must gain his rest while he may.'

'He did not react upon news of Ashe's delivery; it appears he does not relish the notion of fatherhood.' Basch continued, his deep tones doing nothing to help Balthier sleep.

'You seek to have me confirm a truth you already know, I shall not play such games.' He thought he could hear Fran's smile in her words.

_Thank you Fran; bloody nosy Landissian, Judge Magister imposter, what does he know of fatherhood?_

Balthier's cantankerous thoughts veered off into a deeper state of inattentiveness losing the thread of their conversation.

'Balthier, awake.'

He was roused from an empty, dreamless void by Fran crouched before him. Looking about him Balthier discovered that they had landed in the Palace of Rabanastre's courtyard. He struggled (slightly embarrassed) to his feet and moaned as every new formed bruise, cut and graze made itself known to him.

'Ngn, one of these days Fran I'm going to learn to stop doing such bloody stupid things.'

He told his friend as she draped one of his arms over her shoulders (the height difference between them not too much of an impediment in the manoeuvre) and helped him limp towards the exit hatch.

'The Couerl cannot change its markings, Balthier. Your nature is equally set.'

He snorted derisively but did not argue; the weight of the evidence was in her favour after all.

Balthier was decidedly disconcerted when he limped out of Fran's ship (he would have to remember to enquire as to the vessel's name and asking price) to find a contingent of milling people loitering about the ship.

Vaan and Penelo greeted him with nauseating enthusiasm that simply made his aching head infinitely worse as Fran led him into the Palace and slowly up the stairs to Ashe's chambers.

Marquis Ondore soon attached himself to their unsteady progress.

'You have the gods own luck, Balthier, to survive Bahamut once is fortuitous to survive twice is nothing short of miraculous.'

'Quite.' Balthier bit out irritably.

The eyes and whispers of the varied palace officials and other assorted on-lookers blackened his mood (Balthier enjoyed an audience as well as any other, but he had not even had opportunity to change his shirt. Did these people have no sense of decency?)

All trivial grievances slipped away, however, as he and Fran entered Ashe's chambers and he saw her lying in her bed (swathed in pale lemon yellow sheets pulled up to her neck) asleep and almost impossibly peaceful in appearance.

Balthier pulled away from Fran and limped unaided towards Ashe's bedside. He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. She frowned fractionally but did not bother waking (but then Ashe slept like the dead under normal circumstances).

He smiled faintly and made to collapse into the padded chair drawn up to her bedside, planning to settle, unmoving, until she woke.

Fran's hand, curling around his forearm, stopped him. He frowned at her as she drew him towards the cradle arranged with snow-white peaked canopy in the far corner of the room that Balthier had managed to completely ignore upon entering the chamber.

'Fran, please…' He whispered.

He did not want to see them.

He did not want to look inside the cradle. He had not the strength. It was unfair to make him do this now, after the day he had had. Was it not enough that he had been prepared to die for them, why for did he have to look at them?

Unfortunately Fran was impervious to his expressive, pleading look. The cradle loomed up in front of him and inevitably, unwillingly, he looked down, through the haze of arcana (he recognised the Bubble spell, used to protect sickly infants from airborne pestilence and enhance their strength. It was a readily used spell and one that had been applied on him when he had been born far too small, sickly and in-firm.)

The two tiny infants swaddled in blankets side by side in the cradle looked exactly as he had thought they would. Small, wrinkled, red, hairless, and quite frankly hideous, much like any other newborn.

Balthier was about to turn away, return to Ashe (for at least his feelings for her were simple) when one of the infants (he could not tell which was the girl and which the boy) opened its eyes and looked at him.

That was all it did (not that it could do much else). It simply stared at him with eyes that seemed to absorb everything and anything in the room. A vacuum of such immense and rapacious hunger that Balthier felt that all the light in the room was swallowed by those eyes.

_Oh, bugger._

He knew of course. He could not fail to know this feeling, which he had felt only once before. This instantaneous, rapturous, possessive love that he had once experienced when he had first laid eyes on his Strahl and realised he would do anything, go anywhere and risk anything to have her.

The little baby opened its bud like mouth wetly and lolled its tiny pink tongue. Those eyes seemed to assess him expectantly, confidently, as if knowing absolutely that he was utterly defeated already. He found himself frowning, irritated in the face of such an all-encompassing _look_.

Those eyes seemed to say to him, though rationally he knew the baby could do no such thing, that all his secrets already belonged to it. Everything he knew, everything he treasured and gained pleasure from, was now the property of this tiny (still strikingly ugly) bald creature who could do nothing for itself but cry.

It seemed to him that the baby with the open eyes spoke to him, spoke for them both, tiny sleeping sibling included, as the infant looked up at him with unwavering gaze.

_I'm yours; you belong to me. Nothing you ever do, nothing you have ever achieved in your past or ever will achieve, can surpass me. I am the sum total of everything that is good in you, Ffamran Mid Bunansa, and in my time I shall best you, surpass you, and leave you in my shadow…..and when I do, you shall cheer me on, because I'm yours as nothing else will ever be. _

'Which one is this?' He finally managed to whisper, knowing that Fran understood and approved of everything that had passed between he and his child.

'This is your daughter, she has your eyes.'

_The girl, hmm, that does not surprise me. _Balthier thought almost dryly, after all, only a female could have such an aura of entitlement to them when merely hours old. He spared a glance to his sleeping son and smiled faintly.

This child was smaller than his sister, placid and helpless in concentrated sleep, yet for all that the infant was tiny, wrinkled and hairless, he thought he saw the mark of Ashe's features, the embryonic hint of her frown, upon the baby's face. Inexplicably this pleased him immeasurably for all that it was hardly surprising.

_Hello, son. Let's hope you do not grow to hate me, though I know, at least, that you shall never disappoint me as I did my father. You are surprisingly perfect already, which considering your lineage, is nothing short of remarkable. _

Unconsciously Balthier placed a hand against the tingling magical barrier around the cradle. His little girl watched his hand with an acute, sharp gaze, surely far too aware for such a very new born baby. His son slept on in the fashion of his mother, oblivious to all.

He glanced at Fran with one pressing thought on his mind. 'They really are quite ugly, aren't they?'

For perhaps only the third time in their long association Fran grinned at him, a shockingly feral baring of teeth that transformed her usually placidly serene features and gave a hint of the vibrancy in her soul. She shrugged her shoulders before replying.

'You humes all look the same to me.'


	19. Chapter 19

**An Interlude of threats and revelations**

_A/N: okay, so here is another Interlude without any Larsa...I don't know what's happening...all I can say is that there will be lashings of Larsa next time!_

_I would also like to take the time for obligatory thank you's to everyone who reviews so faithfully with such kind words and also hello collectively to all the new people reviewing...I try to send private hello's to everyone new but if I've missed you let me just say welcome and thank you! _

* * *

'No way.'

Vaan stood on top of the battlements of Rabanastre's western gate. The sunset was distorted by the still full-strength Paling around the city. The tired light refracted on the curve of the Paling and shimmered in prismatic rainbows down upon them.

Beyond the Paling dome the desert sands, already purple and deep blue with shadow, were littered with bits and pieces of airship. Above them the combined forces of Dalmasca, Bhujerba and Archadia circled the skies in patrol formation.

'Vaan…' Penelo began wishing she hadn't told her friend about Jules and Gerty and Dr Ned. She didn't know what she had been thinking, except that he was usually good at coming up with hair-brained ideas and she dearly needed the inspiration.

'I mean you're not a politician, Penelo, you aren't even an Archadian.' Vaan's voice was getting louder, Penelo winced.

'Shhh, Vaan, don't talk so loud. I know I'm not Archadian, that doesn't matter. I'm helping a friend.'

'You're friends with _Jules?_' Vaan squawked sounding like a distraught Chocobo.

Penelo scowled at him, 'That's not who I meant and you know it.'

Vaan patted his gauntleted hand on the battlements, each pat making a corresponding metallic clank, clank on the stonework as he did so. He eventually rubbed a hand to the back of his neck and shuffled his feet in the way he had when nervous or confused.

'Yeah, but, Penelo what you're doing...it could be dangerous.'

'Jules isn't going to harm me.' Penelo rolled her eyes. She was fairly certain that she could take Jules down with the flick of her wrist if it came to it.

Vaan shook his head, getting worked up, 'That's not what I meant and you know it.' He mimicked Penelo putting on a quavering high-pitched falsetto voice that sounded nothing like her. He only even did that when he was upset or really annoyed.

'I mean it's _political, _Penelo.'

Politics, as far as Vaan was concerned, was the worst evil in all Ivalice. He had been grinning from ear to ear when he locked up most of Ashe's government in the Nalbina dungeon. Penelo knew that if it was up to Vaan none of those men would ever get out again.

'Not all politics is evil Vaan. Things would fall apart without some kind of politics in the world.' Penelo tried to reason with him; she really wished she'd kept her mouth shut now.

Vaan rolled his eyes, 'So, that just means politics is a necessary evil, but it's still evil.' Vaan said managing to say something surprisingly astute and cynical.

Penelo sighed, 'I'm doing this Vaan. I thought you might help me, but I'm doing this with or without your help.'

Vaan's eyes widened, pale and blue, the eyes of a lifelong friend. He looked wretched for a moment, torn between what common sense he actually possessed and his huge well of loyalty to his friend.

Penelo pressed her advantage, 'Vaan, this is just like your Star fruit theory. It's just political star fruit.' She smiled.

Vaan rolled his eyes in distress, 'Penelo…' he whined. 'I only said that to cheer you up. I never expected you to take me seriously; nobody takes anything I say seriously.'

'I do.' Penelo said sincerely.

Vaan smacked a hand down on the top of the battlement wall and glared out at the wreckage strewn across the desert. 'Yeah and look what happened.'

'You're not going to help me, are you?' Penelo asked simply.

Vaan frowned, 'I should say no. I mean I'm Ashe's Knight now, and this is all politics and even I know that people like us shouldn't mess with politics.'

Penelo wrung her hands together anxiously waiting for him to finish and not saying a word to interrupt as she watched her old friend think. Eventually as the light faded and the purple twilight brushed against the Paling she realised that he was never going to break the silence.

'_But…?' _He'd said he _should say no_ but not that he would say no.

Vaan gave her a crooked grin, ' Oh, come on Penelo, you know I'm going to help you, even if it's politics and what you're doing is stupid. You knew I was going to help you before you asked, or you never would have asked.'

Her friend sounded tired and maybe just a little hurt, Penelo felt a moment's guilt, not just because she was getting Vaan involved in her mess but also because he was right, she had counted on his friendship and loyalty. Vaan was really a lot brighter than anyone gave him credit for; he only pretended to be dumb as a stump.

Right that moment he was watching her and nodding his head, thoroughly vindicated.

'Yeah, you and your feminine wiles; I know how you women work.' He uttered the words that were probably the biggest fallacy he had ever come up with. The day Vaan understood the inner workings of the female mind was the day the sex became extinct.

Penelo, ignoring his words, stepped forward and hugged him tightly, carefully avoiding the sharp pointy bits on his armour. 'Thank you Vaan.'

'Yeah, tell me that when we're being stretched on the rack and tortured by the Archadians.'

He hugged her back and then looked back towards a group of guardsmen that had gathered further along the battlements and had been attempting to get their Captain's attention for some time.

'I've got to go, try not to do anything too subterfugey while I'm gone.' He waved to her and ambled off.

Penelo waved back, biting the inside her lip, thinking about what she was planning on doing right now and just what Vaan would have to say about it. Sometimes she wondered if she would even recognise herself in a mirror. She had changed so much from the girl she used to be.

Penelo made her way back into the Palace and wove through the throngs of tense looking people gathered in small groups in the marble pillared corridors of the Palace. They were talking about the battle with Rozzaria, or the Queen's labour, or the arrest of Tnoy and the Archadian fleet flying above the city.

Penelo eased her way through, being watched by the people who whispered her name or tried to get her attention. They all recognised that she was close to the Queen and Captain Vaan, Master Balthier, and even, Lord Larsa. These people recognised that she too was important, so very different than in Archades.

Penelo stopped to talk to a few people, though she couldn't say much about anything. All she could tell them was where everyone was.

Larsa was aboard Alexander not wanting to upset people by letting his Imperial troops back in the city (it had been seven years since the occupation but some wounds never healed) and Ashe was under a magickally induced sleep to help her recover from labour. Marquis Ondore was in discussion with his troops and Zaagabaath but would not make any decisions on Ashe's behalf, as she was Queen. Balthier was supposed to be with the physicians, receiving medical attention.

It was Balthier that Penelo was looking for at that moment.

She found him in the small antechamber that led to Ashe's bedchamber. He was leaning against the edge of the writing desk set outside the enamelled double doors to the bedchamber, looking through a sheaf of papers in his hands.

Apart from the bandages wrapped around his head, sloping to cover his right ear, and the paleness of his face, he looked quite normal.

His ankles were crossed as he half leaned, half sat on the desk, one arm folded across his chest as the other held the papers up to his face, dressed in dark trousers, black waistcoat, white, high collared shirt. He did not look like a man who had just crawled out of the wreckage of a fallen sky fortress.

Penelo hesitated in the doorway of the antechamber, gathering her nerve while it looked like Balthier had not seen her. She tried to work out in her own mind exactly what she wanted him to do and exactly how she was going to ask it of him.

Penelo had always been just a little wary of Balthier.

She loved him like family and she knew that Vaan would chop off his right arm if Balthier asked him too. Both Balthier and Fran had helped her and Vaan so much after the battle to free Dalmasca and taught them both so much, but still, Penelo had never felt completely comfortable around Balthier.

It wasn't that she didn't trust him, because she did. It wasn't that she didn't think he was charming because Balthier was the absolute embodiment of charm (Larsa was fast catching up, of course, but Larsa was still only seventeen and Balthier had ten years of charming experience on Larsa).

It wasn't even that Balthier didn't respect her and Vaan, because she thought he did, at least as much as he respected _anyone_. It wasn't that he was always teasing Vaan for being less than the most intelligent person in Ivalice either; Penelo knew that if Balthier really thought so little of Vaan he would never have taught him so much about airships, let him use the Strahl, or helped Vaan buy the Veccara (which was a secret of course, Vaan wished he'd had the Gil to buy the ship himself and Balthier hated displays of public gratitude, so they all pretended Vaan had bought the ship).

So really, Penelo had no reason for the strange wariness she always felt around Balthier. Except for the fact that, well, she never really knew with Balthier if what he said and did was really what he thought, or even what his true reasons were for being generous one moment (helping Vaan buy his airship) and mean and cynical the next (too many occasions to count).

Penelo had always thought that there _was_ a reason for his _mercurial _nature, but Balthier would never, ever, admit what it was.

That was why Penelo never felt completely comfortable with Balthier the way she was with Fran, because she never knew if he was going to be nasty or nice and when she might find yourself dealing with his meanness.

Penelo almost decided not to enter the room and risk meeting Balthier's mean side, but then he looked up at her over the edge of the papers and smirked. His shadowed brown eyes told her clearly that he'd known she was there the whole time.

'How now, Lady Penelo?' He greeted her cheerfully enough, though he sounded tired.

Penelo felt her cheeks pinking as he quirked an eyebrow enquiringly managing to look suave and handsome even with his head swathed in white bandages. He waited patiently for her to say something.

'Um….I came to see how you were.' She stuttered feeling stupid. She should not have come to see him until she had a proper plan, maybe a script to follow, so she could compete with Balthier and all his words.

Balthier smiled faintly and waved his free hand vaguely towards the bandages covering his head and ear, 'Somewhat diminished but alive. I suppose, on balance, that must suffice.'

Penelo had no idea what to make of that statement, so decided to ignore it. 'Um, that's good. I mean that you're alive and um, talking.'

Balthier gave her a quizzical, vaguely amused look. It was the sort of look a man might give a favourite little niece who had just said something endearing but ridiculous.

'Yes, quite.' He replied dryly.

Another silence fell uncomfortably down on them, 'How is Ashe?' Penelo piped up desperate for something half-way intelligent to say.

'Asleep. I have been assured that she will awake within twelve hours, though she is required to stay abed another day at least.'

Penelo felt her lips curl up cheerfully, 'She won't though. Ashe will want to get straight back up and start giving orders as soon as she's awake.'

Balthier smirked and nodded his head in acknowledgement, 'Undoubtedly true. I have Fran on alert to cast an Immobilising spell if it comes to it.'

Penelo giggled. Once on their quest, right after the massacre of Mount Bur-Omisace, Ashe had been so upset, so angry, that she wanted to take on the might of the Empire right then and there. When Basch had tried to calm her down she had hit him in the face, almost breaking his nose, and Fran had cast an Immobilising spell on her just so that she would calm down.

At the time it had upset Penelo almost as much as the burning of the refugee camp, but now she could remember the funny side of watching Ashe forced to stand like a statue, eyes flashing with rage, as the rest of them got on with setting up camp. It was one of the few times Penelo had ever heard Ashe apologise when she said sorry to Basch later that night.

'So, Lady Penelo, you have enquired after my own health and that of Ashe, is there something else you want, or do you enjoy loitering in doorways?'

Balthier was watching her with the same amused expression, having put the papers back down on the desk and folded both his arms across his chest.

Penelo felt herself blushing again (she thought that might be another reason for her mixed feelings towards Balthier, while Larsa made her blush too, she had always enjoyed it, but with Balthier she just felt silly and foolish).

'How are the babies?' She finally blurted out.

Balthier shrugged, seemingly unconcerned, 'Being watched by half the court and most of the physicians in the city. Their every mewl and whimper recorded and responded to by half a dozen over-zealous underlings.' He rolled his hand in a dismissive gesture.

'They are excessively well cared for.' He clarified when Penelo merely frowned with confusion.

'You must be so proud.' Penelo asked cautiously.

Most people would be and it was what people were supposed to say to new fathers but with Balthier, well, Penelo never knew how he would react to anything. Usually he did the opposite to what might be expected.

Balthier watched her with shuttered brown eyes that seemed to see a lot more deeply into her than she could into him. He shrugged. 'Lose an ear gain a son and a daughter; I suppose the scales are balanced.'

'Um, right.' Penelo smiled hugely, feeling her lips ache with the effort to hold the false smile that stretched across her face. Her heart pounded in her chest. Balthier continued to watch her.

'Spit it out my girl, before you explode.' He eventually drawled, raising one hand languidly, his hand long fingered and still faintly mottled with pale pink burn scars. He flexed his fingers and adjusted the hang of his cuffs.

'What?' Penelo stuttered, wondering if she had guilt and secrets written all across her forehead that Balthier could read as easily as he had the papers covering the desk.

'You've asked about the health of myself, Ashe, and the children; you have exhausted all forms of pleasantry and yet you continue to stand there, hopping from one foot to the other like a woman balanced on hot coals. Whatever it is you wish to say you had better come out and say it.'

'Oh.' Penelo knew her face was burning exactly like a hot coal, she looked down at the beautifully embroidered Nabradian antique rug on the floor beneath her feet.

'I know.' She looked up and met his brown eyes. 'I know what you did to Al-Cid. I had to heal him.'

Penelo did not know what scared her more, the fact that she had just inadvertently blurted out the truth, or the speed with which Balthier uncoiled from his slouch against the desk and crossed the room towards her.

Penelo flinched, barely breathing, as he brushed past her and pulled closed the double doors of the antechamber and threw the lock. He turned back to her and leaned against the closed doors.

'Say that again, I don't believe I heard you correctly.' His voice was cool as a breeze pushing a person over a steep cliff.

Penelo stared up at his face, feeling cold and faint. She balled her fists and spoke calmly.

'Al-Cid; I saw the finger prints on his neck, the bruises from fists all over him. You hit him so hard with the butt of the Firestar that the make sigil imprinted on his skin. You beat him half to death…..you tried to kill him.'

Whatever she might have expected to see on Balthier face, whatever she expected him to say or do, doing nothing had not been part of her expectations. Yet that was what he did; he simply looked at her. It was one of the most frightening looks she had ever seen. He was so calm. So eerily calm.

'And did Al-Cid tell you I had attacked him, or did you ascertain all this from your ministrations?' Balthier drawled finally breaking the silence that had existed between each heavy thump of Penelo's racing heart.

'Quite the leap in deductive reasoning you have made. You take the sight of an injured man and deduce from that the identity of his attacker and said attacker's motivations. Why, had fate followed a different path, you could have made quite a fearsome Judge Magister, Lady Penelo.'

Balthier crossed the room, turning his back on Penelo and her suddenly shaky assertions. He moved to the window and stood looking out at the twilight.

'Fran told me it was you.' Penelo accused his back, angrily.

Technically Fran had not said absolutely that it had been Balthier, but she had said she was paying penance for the 'transgressions' of her partner. Really, what else could that mean?

Balthier turned around slowly and fixed her with hard brown eyes that had seen a lot more than Penelo had and very little of it was nice. Penelo braced herself for what he might say or do next. She imagined this must be what it felt like to have an Ose by the tail. She was waiting for him to bite out her throat.

'I doubt that.' He finally retorted, still so very, very calm.

Penelo, however, thought she saw just the slightest twitching around Balthier's eyes; he determinedly did not look over to the closed doors of Ashe's chamber. This little gesture gave Penelo the confidence to press her case.

'You owe me your life, you know.' She added boldly and watched Balthier's eyebrows rise high on his brow with deep incredulity.

'It was me that sent Rikken to Rozzaria, me who made the Streetears help find you.'

This was again not technically the truth, things had not worked out quite like that, she hadn't so much planned it out as gone along with the plan, but _he _didn't need to know that.

Balthier laughed. Penelo jumped and looked at him askance. Here she was doing her best to threaten him and he laughed?

'My, my, you have become quite the ruthless schemer, haven't you, Penelo? Fran always said there was steel in you. Still, it does not do to bite the hand that fed you.'

Balthier's voice sounded like steel to Penelo; like steel wrapped in velvet. It might look soft and touchable from a distance but it would still hurt when it hit her.

'What do you mean?' Penelo demanded, wondering about casting an Immobilising spell of her own just in case she needed it (not that she really thought Balthier would ever hurt her….but well, she had seen what he had done to Al-Cid, and she _was _trying to blackmail him).

'I mean, my girl, that you are standing here making a great many unfounded and unpleasant allegations, while clearly angling for something. This smacks of ingratitude to me. Would you awaken Ashe from her sleep to pour this poison in her ear?'

Penelo felt her eyes widening. She had never imagined actually telling Ashe anything about her suspicions, but now she realised that she should never have admitted to Balthier what she thought she knew if she wasn't prepared to play her full hand, make good her threat.

She realised suddenly and completely that Balthier was going to eat her alive. Vaan was right, politics was evil and she was better off well clear of it. Leave it to people like Balthier, who lived and breathed double-dealing.

Balthier was smiling silkily and to Penelo he looked like a lazy, wicked eyed bandercouerl as he sauntered over to her while she stood stock still almost hypnotised. Balthier caught her chin and tilted it upwards with one finger.

'Hmm, what could little Lord Larsa possibly want so badly that he would send his paramour to blackmail an ally for it?'

Penelo jerked away from him, suddenly angry, 'I am not a _paramour_.'

She stated firmly (though she wasn't sure what one of those was. It sounded to her like a fancier word for _trollop_.)

'Larsa has nothing to do with this.' She added fiercely as an after thought. This was not strictly true, although Larsa had no actual _knowledge_ of any of it.

Balthier was watching her keenly, 'I see. So you have decided to ally yourself with the Streetear and Rikken to blackmail me for your own reasons, is that it?'

'…._No…._' She snapped, though she did not know how else to answer. Her breathing was shallow and rapid; she was suddenly burning hot and freezing cold with panic. She had made such a mess of things.

Balthier caught her by the arm and pulled her towards the desk and chair, 'Sit, put your head down between your knees, breathe.'

After a few moments in which time Penelo refused to cry and Balthier shuffled papers in a lazy way on the desk, Penelo felt strong enough to try again. She was not the sort to give way in the face of danger or defeat.

Trying to be clever and political had not worked so Penelo did something that was more natural to her, she told Balthier the truth. She told him everything from Vaan's Star fruit theory to her meeting with Dr Ned.

'Well, that is quite the muddle you have created for yourself.' Balthier eventually said, looking a little dazed when she had finished. 'And you truly believe you are doing this all for dear Larsa and the good of all in Old Archades?' He queried dryly.

Penelo felt her cheeks, which had cooled, and her heart, which had slowed, heat up once more, her pulse beginning to pound again. 'Of course. Why else would I be doing all this?'

Balthier smiled at her like a serpent, 'Because you enjoy it. Because little Penelo, the girl whose most remarkable trait is her friendship with Captain Ratsbane, little Penelo the accidental hero and former shop-girl, wants power of her own.' He purred, leaning down where he perched on the edge of the desk to look closely into her face.

'You are how old now? Twenty; twenty-one?'

Penelo looked at him warily and answered reluctantly, 'Nearly twenty-two, what does that have to do with…?'

Balthier interrupted her, 'A woman grown then. I think you want to spread your wings, my girl, you want to make a name for yourself and not merely as the obsession of one love-sick Emperor.'

Penelo felt her cheeks flare and her heart thud with outrage, her eyes widened with anger. 'That is not true. I'm doing this for Larsa.'

Balthier shifted across the desk closer to her, he smiled coolly. His eyes watching her like a Tchita serpent might watch a dreamhare.

'And yet for all that, the object of your enterprise knows nothing of it? Does not in fact have any idea what you have been up to. You do know, I hope, that what you have done amounts to a treasonable act. You have allied yourself with insurgents and political malcontents; if you are caught you could spark a very nasty political incident….and all this is really supposed to help Larsa?'

Penelo could not think of anything to say, her mind whirred to a stop, her thoughts collided with one another as she realised that what Balthier said made perfect sense….and yet for all that, she really had thought she was doing this for Larsa.

Balthier nodded his head, watching her keenly, 'Nasty business, isn't it?' He murmured.

'What is?' She whispered through cold lips.

'Love and lust my girl; love and lust.' he chuckled lazily.

'It is amazing what one can justify when filtered through the excuse that you do it for the one you love. Some people find themselves piloting a collapsing sky fortress over the edge of a ravine.' He slid a caustic smile her way, 'And others turn to backstairs intrigues and politics. Tsk-tsk; a sorry business indeed.'

Penelo did not answer, she wallowed instead in questions. What had she been thinking? What kind of person had she become? What did she do now? How did she get herself out of this mess?

Balthier shifted where he perched next to her and looked out to the moonlit window. 'Do you know what Durham Blaketon was trying to do when he and the Vulgars stormed the upper city twenty years ago?' He asked vaguely.

Penelo looked up sharply, 'No. I mean Dr Ned said they did it to get the vote but…'

Balthier nodded, 'There is a strange little niggle in Archadian law; one that states that a man who can bring into the Senate chamber some one hundred men or women of age can demand a place upon the senate by virtue of force of arms.'

Balthier was watching her with a keen, assessing glint in his eyes, watching her reaction as he gave her the information she had stupidly thought she could blackmail out of him.

'Durham Blaketon was trying to reach the Senate when he was forced into the aerodrome and killed alongside his followers. Nevertheless the law still stands, if anyone can enter the Senate Chamber with a hundred Archadians then they automatically acquire senator status.'

'_Anyone?' _Penelo wondered at such a silly law, but then remembered how heavily fortified and guarded the Senate tower was. Sneaking one person into the chamber would be next to impossible, let alone one hundred.

'Anyone; they do not even have to be an Archadian citizen, they merely need the backing of one hundred Archadians, over the age of fifteen.'

'Oh.' Penelo breathed, now she understood why Jules and Gerty needed her. There was no way that even the streetears could infiltrate the Senate Chamber, but she had once been given an after hours tour of the Senate tower by Larsa himself.

'So, I have paid up, are you still planning on ruining my reputation and possibly my marriage?'

Balthier's cheerful question snapped Penelo from her thoughts. She blinked dazedly and then shook her head, smiling ruefully. 'I was never going to, which you already knew.' She added pointedly.

Balthier chuckled, 'Hmm, true. Though I must commend you; many people have tried to blackmail me in the past and not done half the job you did. You could have quite the career in politics I dare say.'

Penelo smiled wanly, 'I really thought I was helping Larsa.' she whispered. 'Now I don't know what I'm going to do.'

Balthier smiled hugely, a flash of straight white teeth in the gloom, making him look for a moment like a proud silver Lobo. 'Good for you, Lady Penelo, plausible deniability. You'll go far.'

Penelo opened her mouth to demand an explanation for that statement as Balthier straightened up from the desk and sauntered across the room to the doors unlocking them before turning back to her, face serious and all signs of amusement gone.

'Do what you will, my girl, but for the sake of mutual friends I think some advice is in order. If you are going to entertain thoughts of subterfuge and extortion and other dark business, remember to have your story straight. Doesn't matter if it's love or Gil that motivates you, just so long as _you _know why you do what you do. Lose yourself in the game and the pot is lost before the first wager.'

With that he gave her a mockingly formal Archadian style bow, 'Goodnight and pleasant dreams Lady Senator.' He purred steel and velvet in his voice before he drew open the doors and left the chamber.

Penelo was left on her own to nibble on a thumbnail, while her thoughts swirled about her. She did not know what she would do now. She did not know how she would tell Jules and Dr Ned that she would not help them after all.

And even as some part of her thought all that another, harder, brighter, fiercer part of the girl who wasn't quite Penelo anymore, knew it for a lie. She knew exactly what she was going to do. She just didn't know why anymore, or maybe, just didn't want to admit it.

_Goodnight lady senator_ Balthier had said, smug and knowing, as if they shared a secret (which she supposed they did, and not just the one about Al-Cid) but what made her stomach roil in panic and anticipation was not that Balthier had said it, but that she had liked the sound of it when he did.

_Senator Penelo…….._

Yes, she liked the sound of that, which was perhaps the scariest feeling she had ever experienced in her short but eventful life.


	20. Chapter 20

**Rabanastre; the palace**

They were so small, so terribly soft and helpless lying under woollen blankets inside the cradle, snuffling quietly.

She longed to be able to reach down and touch the downy fluff of dark hair on her son's head, so soft and fine she imagined that she could rub it off with the pad of her thumb. She wanted to feel her daughter's tiny, pink star like hand grab hold of her finger, feel that tenacious grip, those impossibly small fingers squeezing.

She couldn't. She couldn't hold her babies and kiss them, or even feed them. All she could do was to gaze down at them through the sheen of magick enveloping their beautiful, fragile bodies and wait.

Wait for her children to grow strong enough to survive and hope that the wait would not prove an insurmountable obstacle to forming a bond with her children.

Ashe had awoken some time in the late morning and had refused all entreaties to stay in bed. She had demanded reports on the safety of her people and Dalmasca's borders, she had wanted a comprehensive list of all casualties from the sky battle and she had demanded to see her children.

She had had to walk bent almost double, moving with the arthritic slowness of the very old and infirm; yet for all that she had stubbornly refused all assistance and walked unaided. Now she stood before the cradle, heart breaking with frustrated love.

She wanted to be a mother in every way and she couldn't be.

She had already fallen short of the responsibilities of motherhood; she had failed to keep her children sheltered and protected from harm. Her body had ejected them from the safety of her womb too soon and now they were trapped behind a thick wall of magick, cut off from the love and affection of their mother and even the most basic of Hume contact.

She pressed her palm against the tingling barrier of the Bubble spell and smiled for her children who watched her with liquid eyes. Her son raised one tiny, chubby hand as if to reach for her and a single tear splashed from Ashe's cheek onto the dome of magick. There was the flash of copper fire green as the spell neutralised the alien element before it could contaminate the babies' air.

'Soon, very, very soon.' she promised her children. Soon they would be united.

The midwife and the gaggle of attendant physicians assured her that her children were doing well; that their lungs and organs were fully formed even if they were weak. In a few weeks (weeks! It was so long, so very long) they would be strong enough to come out of the Bubble spell.

Aching and tired Ashe curled up in the soft padded chair drawn up to the cradle and chewed on her bottom lip until it was bloody. There was so much to do, so much to put right…..so many people depending on her judgement, her leadership.

She would have to change out of her nightclothes soon and make an address to her people. She would have to hold a war council with her foreign allies: Larsa and her uncle. She would have to decide if she would take up the newly autonomous government of Landis' offer of financial aid. She may very well have to go to war.

Ashe was so preoccupied by her swirling thoughts and the hollow ache inside that longed for nothing more than the presence of her babies in her arms that she did not hear the doors to the nursery opening and the man who moved swiftly across the room towards her.

A large, warm, sword-calloused hand closed on her shoulder and she turned to look up at her former Knight Protector.

'Basch.'

She rose from the chair with the clumsy haste of a little girl and barrelled into his arms in a way she had not done since before her first marriage. For a moment Basch's body tensed in surprise then his arms encircled her.

'Majesty.' he murmured, gruff voice soothing and a comfort to her aching soul; within a few moments Ashe pulled away from his embrace and wiped at her dry eyes. She managed a tremulous smile.

'It is time to be Queen again, isn't Basch?'

He smiled crookedly and for the first time Ashe saw how well he looked, a vibrancy and contentedness shining in his pale blue eyes since the restoration of his homeland and the partial freedom from the many burdens of his duty.

'You are never anything but a Queen, my lady.' He replied with the same straight forward honesty that she had once depended on so much.

Hesitating she cast a forlorn look back to the cradle, hands fluttering in a quandary, unable to be close to her children even as she could not bear to leave them.

Basch again placed his battle worn hand on her shoulder and gently turned her about to face him. 'You will be a magnificent mother to them, have no fear on that.'

Ashe blinked as tears threatened and deliberately straightened her shoulders as she met his warm, steady regard. It surprised her not at all that he had known the very root of her fears and with his words still echoing in her mind she walked calmly and determinedly out of the nursery, Basch at her back as of old.

That her lady in waiting Hemelo was waiting alongside Penelo to help her dress simply added to the feeling that past and future were merging and converging.

It took time to dress, her two ladies in waiting finding a loose fitting gown for her to wear over her tired body and Penelo presented her with her thigh sheath and her dagger to fit into her right boot.

Dressed and armed Ashe felt able to face her people.

She walked through her palace towards the main plaza where once Vayne Solidor had announced his consulship and the Kiltia insurgents had obliterated her Cathedral.

As she strode through the crowds of the well-to-do loitering anxiously in the pillared hallways and antechambers of the palace she felt the ripple of expectation and awe, like a physical sensation as her people turned to follow her.

Perhaps some thousand or more people had gathered in the Plaza, free from the confines of Lowtown and she heard her name on many hundreds of lips. She stepped up to the podium waiting for her, no words prepared in advance and no assurances to give.

'People of Rabanastre,' she addressed the crowd as silence cloaked the gathered masses and above their heads, above the Paling that distorted the sunlight and created a hot, humid atmosphere in the streets, the shadow of a war galleon passed over.

'We have survived another attempt by a so-called greater power to invade; another attempt against our autonomy and our freedom. Our souls were threatened and our lives held ransom, yet today we stand here besieged and under threat, yet for that we are still free.'

The tide of murmurs, whispers and exclamations swept up to lap against the podium she stood upon and she waited until the wave drew back once more before continuing.

'We must give thanks to those allies, both old and precious to us,' and here she looked to her uncle Halim who stood leaning heavily on his cane, his long aquiline face grave but resolute and met his eyes with a expression of silent gratitude, 'and also those who were once our enemy. The men of Archadia who, under the guidance of a just Emperor, come now to make amends for past transgressions by pledging their lives to defend Dalmasca's sovereignty.'

Ashe waited again for the sonorous murmurs, this time carrying the bite of wariness and still tender wounds as eyes looked beyond the Paling to where the Archadian flagship Alexander hovered huge and imposing above the city. There was a general rustling, like the wind through trees, as the people shifted uncomfortably, their unease palpable.

'We have seen that enemies can become allies and allies can become enemies, but we have proved, each and every one of us, that within the Rabanastran breast beats a single, unconquerable, unbreakable heart that cannot and will not ever be defeated.'

Ashe leaned forward to speak with greater passion, holding her audience captive with the power of her will that coloured and compounded each and every word she spoke.

'People of Rabanastre we are _not_ at war.' She insisted fiercely, her words carrying to the furthest reaches of the Plaza. 'We have been attacked, targeted by those who, through no fault or provocation of our own, seek to harm us. Yet for all this I tell you we are not at war.'

Confusion rippled through the crowds and she saw its disconcerted echo reflected in the eyes of those who would consider themselves her closest allies and advisors, Basch, Uncle Halim, even Vaan and Penelo.

'I say that we are not at war not only because I have offered no proclamation of such, but because it is my fervent belief that Dalmasca, the Kingdom founded by the great Raithwall, has no stomach for further bloodshed. Dalmasca believes in peace and, yes, we shall fight to retain our liberty, but no true peace can be won in the needless bloodshed of others.'

There were a number of murmurs of assent from the crowds, but also clear calls against Rozzaria, demands for retribution against the city's current circumstances, justice for those who died in the Cathedral and in the sky battle.

'There will be justice.' Ashe confirmed firmly, her voice heated ice overlaying solid steel. 'Those who have trespassed against us will know the wrath that Dalmasca can, and will, lever against them, but Dalmasca must always stand above the horrors of revenge. Rabanastre must stand a bastion of acceptance and forgiveness, an example for all.'

There were louder murmurs this time, grumbles of agreement. Rabanstrans were a proud people, proud that they had withstood occupation, proud that they could lay claim to the inheritance of Raithwall.

Proud also that Rabanastre was a city home to every race in Ivalice; a city that could be home to all and bar none. It was a reputation that Ashe played on now; she did not want her city to be riven with racial strife and suspicion as could so easily happen.

'I promise you that I will personally deal with those who threaten us all,' she told her people and felt their understanding, their expectation that the warrior queen would ride out and lay waste to those who threatened them, as once she had risen from the dead to deliver her country from occupation.

'In return I ask you to uphold the principles of Dalmasca, do not turn on your neighbour because he was born Rozzarian, do not shun those who hold firm to the beliefs of Kiltia, all that are under this Paling are Rabanastran and will be well treated. All who come here seeking to aid us should be treated with our respect and our gratitude. War comes and war goes but we should hold to something better.'

She did not wait for applause, nor expect it instead she stepped quickly from the podium and back towards the palace wanting to be away from the clinging heat, the expectations and tensions palpable in the air.

Rather swiftly she was bracketed in by her uncle on one side and Basch on the other. Trailing behind Vaan and Penelo brought up the rear, yet one person, who might be expected to be at her side, was conspicuous in his absence.

Ashe looked to her uncle as they strode into her privy chamber, where those few remaining members of her privy councillors who were not languishing in Nalbina dungeon at her leisure or under house arrest were outnumbered by a new court of traders, artisans and representatives of the city.

'Where is he? I was assured that he had survived Bahamut.'

She did not need to say more for her uncle to know who she meant; an expression of acute consternation and discomfort passed over her uncle's smooth, cool features. For a terrifying moment in time Ashe thought that she had been lied to, that Balthier had perished aboard the Bahamut.

Her uncle must have read her fears in her eyes, for he squeezed her hand where it rested on his arm, 'Balthier's exact whereabouts are unknown at present, but fear not, he is well.'

Then where is he?

Ashe had no time to verbalise her question, or even to acknowledge the bubbling of anger and disappointment that rose in her gut, as the men and women assembled in the audience chamber rose as she entered .

Immediately her eyes alighted on one, unexpected, but welcome addition to her swelled cabinet.

'Your Grace, Al-Cid.' She moved swiftly towards the languid, swarthy man in the almost golden long coat and dark trousers who rose insouciantly from his chair and crossed the room to sweep a deep bow to her before kissing her hand.

'Ah, my desert bloom, I wish to be de first to congratulate you on de birth of your children. I 'ave no doubt dey shall be great princes' of de Raithwall line, just as dere mother is, eh?'

Ashe could feel a genuine smile spread across her face at the mention of her tiny babies and the glorious destiny that awaited them.

'And you, my friend, how are you?' _And how is that you are here? _She thought but did not speak the question aloud.

She had many questions, not least of which was how Archadia had managed to mobilise and arrive in Dalmasca so quickly. It would only be possible if the Imperial fleet had already been en-route by the time Balthier had sent the coded distress call. Suddenly, as she watched her friend's dark hooded eyes, she understood.

'Gods, it was you. You knew of the attack and mobilised the Imperial fleet to come to Rabanastre's aid.' It was not a question, as she saw the spark of confirmation in Al-Cid's eyes.

Briefly he glanced back to where three of his 'little birds' gathered by his vacated chair watching the interaction between he and Ashe with sharp interest.

'It appear dat I still 'ave friends in Rozzaria, de word dat de war pavilion moved on Rabanastre come wit' no time to tell you, my bloom, or I should 'ave done so.'

Ashe shook her head quickly, her hand still clasped in his, 'You managed to reach Larsa and the Imperial fleet, you need make no apologies. I am in your debt.' She added in softer voice that no-one save Al-Cid could hear.

Al-Cid Margrace smiled; a slow, languorous stroke of strong white teeth in his dark, handsome face, 'How is dat de sayin' goes? You be scratching my back an' I be scratching yours, eh? Dis is what de allies do for each other, no?'

Ashe met his dark, carefully veiled gaze and knew that he was making allusion to Balthier's rescue of Al-Cid from his brother's assassins, of her willingness to risk the life of her husband and the safety of her kingdom to see him to safety.

A secret which could possibly justify the Rozzarian invasion force and threaten her standing among her people if they found out her rash decision to save a friend had resulted in the loss of the Cathedral and the loss of life in the sky battle.

'Yes,' Ashe answered sincerely, 'that is what friends do.'

Then she turned away from Al-Cid Margrace (who had been introduced as having been rescued by Larsa and residing in hiding in the northern most reaches of the Archadian Empire to avoid association with the pirates of Balfonheim) she found herself confronted with a number of familiar faces.

The Moogle Montblanc from Clan Centurio was present as was Migelo and a number of other guild leaders in the city. There were also representatives from Nalbina and the settlements of the desert and Giza that looked to Rabanastre for their protection in times of strife.

Ashe found herself wondering as the business of discussing the aftermath of the sky battle (which by strange mutual consensus was now being referred to as the battle of 'Bahamut rising') and what to do next began in earnest, if it might not have been better if she had done away with her father's old council from the very beginning and instead surrounded herself with true men and women of the city?

Soon however all idly considerations were put on hold as the true meat of the issue was raised by Al-Cid. As the heavy, syrupy accented words filled the room leaving silence in their wake, Ashe could only stare at her friend in quiet horror.

'De word dat came to me, I 'ave since wondered if it were not done deliberately.' Al-Cid said slowly.

'Dat in fact my brother an' 'is woman did not want me to warn you, my lady, dat dey be coming, to ensure a battle.'

'Why would they do that?' Ashe asked leadenly, fear sitting like an iron rusting weight in her stomach. She dug her fingernails into the armrests of her chair of state.

Al-Cid met her eyes with a dark, infinitely tired regard, he sighed, and his expression twisted with distaste and some melancholy emotion she could not quite identify. 'Because de Lady Hepzibah, my brother's wife was onboard de white galleon dat de Bahamut hit with de Mist cannon. We do not know if she live, but it likely dat she is dead.'

Ashe could barely breathe as memory from that awful night assaulted her, she remembered Balthier (acting under her stead) arming the cannon and taking aim on the grand, gleaming white air galleon.

Realisation crashed on her, 'Sweet gods, we have made her a martyr.'

The fanatical queen, martyred in fire and blood by the heretical queen; Ashe could still hear the maniacal, yet sickeningly sweet echo of Hepzibah's blood soaked promises to her people should they rise up and murder her. It had all been a ruse, a means to ensure that the fanatic achieved her own martyrdom and that Dalmasca was plunged into war.

Ashe sought the gazes of all the others gathered in the room and found the same sick, disgusted understanding reflected back at her.

_I never miss._

She heard his voice, rolling and faintly mocking in her minds ear. Balthier's familiar battle taunt as he cocked his rifle; aimed and fired. A crimson stab of pure, unwarranted rage ran through her.

_Damn you Balthier, what have you done? What have you left me to deal with alone?_

The anger faded as swiftly as it had risen. He had done no more than she had asked him to, no more than needed to be done to defend Dalmasca and she was monarch, not him. It was her responsibility to govern her kingdom and hers alone.

_But why isn't he here? Why is he not with his family when we need him?_

Feeling overcome with fear; terrified and overwhelmed by the wait and burden of duty upon her, Ashe called a halt to the meeting.

'I will not march my people to a war they cannot win. We will remain on high alert until we know one way or the other whether Hepzibah is dead and whether or not that was their intent all along.' Ashe paused for a moment an odd thought coming to her, 'Do we have any information on movements on Mount Bur-Omisace? I know that the Gran Kiltias stands opposed to the extremists, but have we any recent word?'

'No, your Majesty.' It was Montblanc that answered, 'Though Gerty was on the slopes with her Chocobos and I can send word to her, if you wish.'

Ashe nodded, thankful for the Moogle propensity to retain strong kinship bonds among themselves, 'Yes, do that at once. Until we have proven facts this meeting is adjourned.'

Ashe strode along the corridors of the palace once the meeting had been disbanded with anger reverberating along each vertebrae echoing in her steps so that she thought she might crack the marble with each stomp.

_Where is he? I go into labour and he cannot be bothered to wait for me to awaken before he flies off to pastures new?_

'Ashe?'

Basch caught her arm and it was only last minute restraint that stopped her from striking him in her sudden, intense rage. She turned to him just outside the double doors leading to the palace wing where the nursery was.

'Where is he Basch? Why isn't he here?' She hissed furiously.

_He hasn't gone. He would not leave...please gods he would not be such a coward._

Basch winced at the pain and fury in her tone, 'I know not Majesty.' He murmured regretfully. 'I do not know where Fran is either, yet the Strahl is docked behind the palace still, so too is Fran's vessel.'

Ashe let her breath out in a rush, 'He would not leave without the Strahl.'

'_I do not like children...I loathe children...'_ Balthier's words whispered, insidious and cold, through her mind.

She had been asleep some seventy hours, in that time had he returned, broken and battered from the Bahamut, to discover that he had not the capacity in him to love his own children? Did he hide somewhere with Fran at his side away from the court so as to not have to face her and the children he could not love and care for; was that the reason for his absence?

Ashe shoved her way through the double doors leading to the nursery where her beautiful, blameless, perfect children waited, alienated from the loving touch of their mother and shunned by their father.

If he had fled because he could not lower himself to care for his own children she would never forgive him. She could never love him again if his own guilty, wounded heart was so absorbed in its own inadequacies that he could not find love for his children. She would hate him forever if that was the case.

Throwing open the doors to the nursery, her stomach heaving with curdled hate and betrayal, Basch at her back like a quiet loyal shadow, Ashe came to a sudden halt as if faced with a solid, stone wall.

'A little more to the left, it is not quite centred over the cradle.'

Balthier stood with his back to the nursery doors, facing the cradle and waving directions to the trio of Moogles (Nono among them) that floated near the low ceiling of the nursery above the cradle fiddling with what looked to be a hanging mobile.

Ashe could only watch, adrenalin and tumultuous emotion held in momentary check in her body by her own astonishment, as she realised that the object was indeed a mobile.

A magnificent hanging children's toy, it contained a Crystal light encased in a cylindrical metal tube that had delicate cut out stars and moons from which the light could shine through. From strings a series of stylised clouds, suns, moons, stars and galleon airships dangled down towards the cradle; once the entire thing was positioned exactly so above the cradle the Moogles set to work securing it to the ceiling.

Ashe found her gaze roving over the nursery in something akin to shock. When she had been in the room earlier it had appeared simply as an unused former guest bedroom for there had been no time to properly prepare the room, now it looked like a nursery fit for a baby prince and princess.

Thick draperies embroidered with smiling caricatures of native fiends hung from the balcony doorway and the curtain hooks, two rocking chocobo's had been arranged in a corner of the nursery near the rocking chair Ashe had sat upon earlier that very day.

An enormous toy chest, painted with pictures of castles in the sky and airships was being carefully loaded with an expensive collection of mechanised toys by Fran, who looked up with dry amusement at Ashe and Basch.

As Balthier and the three Moogles continued to fail to notice the presence of the Queen in the chamber and fussed over the mobile, Ashe noticed that even the light fixtures had been covered with new light shields that had similar cut out moons and stars to the light attached to the mobile.

In the Rains darkened late afternoon Ashe watched the twinkling Crystal light reflected through those cut out shapes cast the room into shadows of twinkling stars as if the nursery was the centre of all creation.

'Balthier?' Her voice cracked and he jumped slightly. Balthier and the three Moogles looked over to the doorway with identical expressions of surprise.

Recovering swiftly Balthier smiled, 'Ah, Highness, and Citizen Basch, you are just in time.'

Balthier stepped swiftly over to Ashe who was still unable to countenance what she was seeing. He swept her into the room on his arm and gestured grandly to the mobile.

'Nono, do the honours, if you please.'

The white Moogle gave a tiny thumbs up sign, and he and the other two Moogles, one of which Ashe thought she vaguely recognised, switched on the mechanism for the mobile.

Immediately the room was cast in the soft diffuse golden light from the Crystal as the whole mechanism began to rotate. Stars and moons and clouds rolled across the shadows on the walls and ceiling above their heads as suspended above the cradle the carven airships and celestial bodies circled majestically.

Standing before the cradle Ashe looked down to see her babies watching the moving objects and the lights on the ceiling with avid, intent and focussed gazes. The light reflected in their eyes like true starlight as for a moment everyone in the room simply watched, in silence, the progression of the mobile as it turned on perfectly oiled joints.

Ashe, with Balthier's arm loosely draped around her waist, looked up at him not quite able to formulate words. She watched him watch the intricate mechanism with an almost boyish delight.

'It's quite grand isn't it? Well worth the Gil.'

'You did all this?' Ashe finally found her voice; there was a hoarseness to her words that had nothing whatsoever to do with anger. 'This is why you were not present at the council meeting?'

Balthier finally looked to her, a familiar abstracted look on his face, 'Hmm, I did not realise I was needed.'

He replied blankly and then turned back to the mobile and their children who had started to reach tiny arms up to wriggle miniature fingers towards the stars and moons dancing and wheeling in this private, miniature sky.

'In any regards,' Balthier continued jauntily, 'Wars come and go, but this moment will only happen once. I had thought they might get bored staring at the same patch of ceiling.' he shrugged.

'Now they have something worth looking at while they are trapped in a Bubble.'

Ashe, who had but minutes earlier so maligned and chastised Balthier in her own mind, could think of no sensible thing to say or do when confronted with evidence absolute that Balthier not only had come to terms with his own fatherhood but had embraced it with his usual flair and almost myopic dedication.

'Of course,' Balthier continued to muse distractedly, 'It will be some time before they are ready for most of these things,' he waved towards the rocking chocobos painted with such attention to detail that each feather of their plumage stood to individual attention, 'but children grow swiftly and it is better to have the nursery ready, then have them go without.'

Ashe, who it was fair to say, had been through one ordeal after another in recent times, gave way quite sudden and completely to tears. There seemed little else she could do, even as she reached out a cupped palm to catch a dancing star as it lighted across the room.

War did come and go, like the cycles of the seasons throughout Ivalice, but this one moment, on the precipice of a difficult tomorrow with so many unknowns, would never come again.

She was glad, fervently glad, that it had been, perhaps, the best moment of her life.

* * *

_A/N: Ahhh! some people might think this is out of character for Balthier, especially as in the last scene he was diametrically different...however I think that Balthier is just that changeable __and__ that smitten with his children...next chapter I might actually get around to naming them ;)_


	21. Chapter 21

**Bahamut**** Oasis (remnant) **

_A/N: 88 reviews...best ever total __woot-woot__!!...ahem, by that I mean thank you everyone who has sent in reviews both interesting, amusing__ and hugely flattering! ;)_

_This is the last of the introspection chapters before I kick the plot into high-gear again! This story is headed towards its climax...though it might take awhile to get there!_

_P.S: Bluesparx...so glad you like my rendition of Penelo, she is tremendously difficult to write (I'm not good with cute without the cynical...thus Penny's fall from grace!) next chapter should have much Larsa/Penelo, there may even be hi-jinks who knows?_

* * *

Balthier was not a happy man. His conscience was tormenting him in a vague and accusatory manner. 

Needless to say the sensation was not one he relished and he dearly wished his conscience (a fairly new addition to his psychology and not a welcome addition in the least) would go the way of his sense of fair play and shrivel into dust.

It was raining; the rain clouds blowing up from Giza and washing the sky in roiling shades of indigo, grey and violet storm clouds made an impressive contrast to the Paling dome around the city of Rabanastre.

The Paling, glittering in shades of sapphire blue and aquamarine as the rain pelted down on the solid wall of magick, made the city resemble a cheap, tourist bauble. The sort of trinket that contained miniature wooden cityscapes inside glass balls filled with water and grains of rice; the sort of paltry fare that wealthy holidaymakers with more Gil than good taste could pick up from most sundry stores.

Balthier, settled in the overhanging shadows of the ruins of Bahamut (those lower sections of the Bahamut that had remained welded to the sands when he had flown the fortress away from the city), watched the rain pound the surface of the Oasis and considered the ways in which he could justify to his own inquiring mind and over-reaching conscience why it was that he was hiding in the wreckage of Bahamut and not by his wife and children's side.

It was perhaps, when thought of objectively, a good sign in regards his own moral maturity that Balthier was less interested in actively lying to himself than he might have expected to be.

He was not guilty about the nursery; even thinking on it made him smile just slightly, as restlessly his fingers twisted grass stems together and watched the rain with a certain sense of relish (he liked precipitation, he had decided this when the reality of just how little rain Dalmasca received was truly borne home to him when the country became his permanent residence).

Balthier had enjoyed decking out the nursery and engaging the services of two well recommended Moogles as nannies (Gods bless Nono and the Moogle propensity to maintain powerful bonds of amity between kin; without that he doubted he would have been able to lure Sorbet from the Moogling Post for all the Gil in Ashe's coffers).

He had also enjoyed perusing the artisan and toy makers' stores for novel and interesting children's amusements, which was not something he had ever had cause to do before. He and Fran had found the whole exploit to be both an education and an entertaining diversion (or escape, self-imposed exile, or whatever else one might wish to call Balthier's pointed absence from the Palace during the pre-arranged war cabinet meeting).

No, in truth it wasn't the actions he had taken that led him to this moment of semi-melancholy introspection, but instead the motivating factors behind those actions.

If only it had not all been a ruse; an excuse and a justification for escaping the Palace, then maybe, he could have taken more pleasure in Ashe's shocked delight (and yes, he had been well aware of how ready she had been to gut him upon entering the nursery) when she saw the fruits of his labours lovingly displayed for her.

Restless and increasingly irritated with himself Balthier surged to his feet, nervous fingers going to his right ear (which was not in quite the dire state of disrepair it had been, thanks to some clever stitchery by one of the palace physicians).

His fingers brushed over the ragged edge of his ear, where the top rim had been blown clear away; a split in the flesh now sewn up and forming a thick lumpy line of scar tissue ran down the shell of his ear and he had even managed to replace his piercings to adorn what little cartilage of his ear remained.

It would, Balthier thought ill-spiritedly, all be so much easier if bloody Al-Cid Margrace was not currently ensconced as honoured guest in the Palace.

_Damn the man and his well timed intervention to save __Rabanastre__, I am sure he d__id__ it merely to spite me._

Balthier walked out towards the edge of the waters of the Oasis enjoying the refreshing sensation of the rain cascading down his face, beading through his short cropped hair and down his neck to roll under his shirt collar (a less pleasant sensation but he was feeling in a masochistic and sorrowful state, so therefore may as well look the part). Disconsolately he watched the silvery, lithe bodies of the fish some scallywag had put in the Oasis flit about near the surface of the water, attracted by the pitter-patter of the rain.

_If only I had not beaten the man half to death with my__ own__ rifle..._

Balthier mourned internally, though even as he thought this a more self-serving, and truthfully more familiar, voice argued that what he truly wished was that either he'd finished the job and killed the foppish Rozzarian idiot, or that there was not at least two people also currently in the Palace who knew of his guilt.

After all Balthier had enough experience both as gentleman pirate and well-bred miscreant to know that it was not the perpetration of a crime that was the sin, but the being caught that held all the woe for the guilty.

What truly bothered Balthier was not that it had become an open secret that he had, in a moment of shameful indiscipline, attacked an unarmed and (relatively) innocent man, but that self same victim had said not one word about said crime. Balthier suspected the openings for blackmail (and Penelo, gods bless the little minx, had already taken her opportunity) yet for the life of him he could not think what Al-Cid might want that would warrant such furtiveness.

The prospect that Al-Cid was keeping his peace because he was in fact the better man (at least in a moral sense, so far as received wisdom on morality would have it) was part of the pressing weight of things unspoken and unwelcome that had driven Balthier to breach the Paling and escape a growing sense of guilty paranoia.

_It is not as if a simple, contrite apology will suffice. What am I supposed to say? Sorry for beating you bloody, Al-Cid, old chap, no hard feelings, hmm?__ Oh, and be a sport about it all and don't tell my wife, there's a good fellow._

The whole thing was ludicrous.

There was no means of apology for what he had done to Al-Cid Margrace and any act of contrition he might perform would be solely as a sop for his own over burdened conscience.

Balthier was not proud of himself or what he had done, but the still smouldering rage he harboured deep inside when he thought back on the moments directly leading up to his unfortunate homicidal episode told him clearly that he did not feel sorry for the pain he caused the other man.

Seeking an escape from his own unpleasant introspection Balthier refocused his attention on his surroundings, which was as dampening and miserable as his mood.

The water of the Oasis had a strange consistency, he noted absently. It was more akin to the waters of a spa pool than a fishing pond and as he pushed his hands into the water, breaking the rippled surface, it seemed to him that the waters resisted, pushing against his hands.

'Ah, my friend, you be a hard man to find, eh?'

Had Balthier had a rifle to hand at that moment he would have found himself compounding his problems by becoming responsible for the manslaughter of the fallen Margrace, Al-Cid. Thankfully (for them both) Balthier was unarmed and so Al-Cid had only to contend with a frankly shaken and alarmed Balthier.

Gathering his wits as swiftly as he could and already (due to surprise and guilt) on the back-foot and highly defensive Balthier uncoiled from his pensive crouch at the water's edge and turned to face the rain dampened Rozzarian exile.

Al-Cid looked better than the last time Balthier had seen him (which, he admitted ruefully, was hardly surprising as the last time he had seen the man he had been in the process of pummelling him to a bloody pulp). Dressed in his annoyingly habitual yellow frock coat and tight fitting leathers Al-Cid had also donned his sun-glasses and absently swept the fall of heavy dark hair from his face with one black gloved hand.

'It is strange that I should find you 'ere, no? You are developing de unhealthy affinity for de Bahamut, eh?' Al-Cid chuckled easily and walked over to the relative shelter of the ragged prongs of steel that was all that remained of the fortress.

Balthier simply watched him, heedless of the rain that was squalling westward up from the Giza Plains. He was experiencing a rare moment of speechlessness in the presence of the man he had not so long ago attempted to murder with his bare hands (and his rifle), who was now making idle chit-chat.

Al-Cid seemed to sense that any further attempts at pleasantries would be met with the same incredulous silence and instead took his rain flecked sun glasses off and looked at the man who had tried to kill, but who had also risked his life to rescue him in something the intellectual in Al-Cid recognised as a fundamental paradox between personal expression and the loyalty to a loved one, with calm, assessing dark eyes.

'We need to talk, eh? To, how you say, get our stories straightened?'

Balthier, who was still entirely unable to engage his mind or tongue to formulate a response, quirked an eyebrow deeply bemused. Al-Cid was now managing to make it all sound as if they were both equally complicit in the crime of beating the Rozzarian senseless, as if by being the unwilling victim of an act of unwarranted violence, Al-Cid now felt the two of them had something in common.

Silently aghast at the tortuous and circuitous twists and turns his life took, Balthier found himself thinking almost nostalgically back at the simpler, halcyon days when all he had to fear was the hang-man's noose and Ba-Gamnan's rotating saw.

'I 'ave no intention of informin' de Lady Ashe of de bad business dat occur between us.' Al-Cid continued, unnecessarily in actual fact as Balthier had already surmised that Al-Cid (for his own incomprehensible reasons) intended to say nothing. After all, he had had ample opportunity to do so.

'We let de sleepin dogs lie, eh? Dis is a matter between us men an' one dat I 'ope can be settled between us 'ere an' now.'

Almost imperceptibly Balthier tensed, furtively looking about for a hidden Bird with a poison blowgun secreted in the shadows of Bahamut, or for Al-Cid to put aside a lifetime of self-styled pacifism and come at him with rapier drawn. Instead the former heir apparent of the Rozzarian Empire tapped his fingers against the rusted scraps of Bahamut; the drumming of his fingers echoing the fall of the rain.

Al-Cid looked up at the tumultuous sky and the gnarled, twisted, root like protrusions of steel that remained where once Bahamut had loomed; he addressed his words as much to any wandering gods listening in from the skies as to Balthier himself.

'As a boy I once went on de progress through de Rozzarian provinces wit' my father. Dere was, I remember as though it were de day dat 'as just been, a great uprising in de south of de empire. My father's Prelate in de region he put some two thousand men to de sword, lay waste to many hundred acres of fertile land. He did dis thing, or so he say at de time, in de name an' de honour of my father.'

Balthier, still deeply wary and unwilling to say anything at all, shifted impatiently where he stood, on virtual tenterhooks, alert for snipers in the wings. He could feel an unfortunate bubbling of irritation within him in response to Al-Cid's words. Born and bred as a privileged son in the _other_ great empire of Ivalice such stories were hardly new to him.

Really, did Al-Cid expect sympathy? Balthier's father had engineered and overseen the genocide of an entire nation, even the blood-thirsty ambition of the family Margrace had never reached such proportions (though Mishman had, of late, set his sights upon such lofty goals).

'It was den dat I declare myself to be de man of peace. It seem to me, even as de boy of twelve, dat to kill a man is easy. To win an argument at de end of de sword or,' here Al-Cid cut a sharp dark eyed glimpse towards his silent but irritable audience, 'de _gun_ is no victory at all. You may t'ink it cowardly to refuse to take up de arms for de beliefs I 'old, but I say to you dat to do so is to betray dose beliefs, an' what would I be den, if I be a man without belief?'

'Less of a liability?'

Balthier cursed himself silently even as the words rolled, smoothly and coldly, off his tongue. Balthier was very far from a foolish man and he knew that to be drawn into discussion with Al-Cid Margrace was foolish indeed.

He knew Al-Cid to be a man of considerable learning and a highly astute politician, he also knew that whatever sensible and reasoned argument he might make against Al-Cid's philosophy the other man need only mention the unfortunate events in Mikanel to have Balthier over a barrel (figuratively speaking, though if Ashe were to hear of it that might very well translate to a literal punishment).

Al-Cid smiled his politicians smile, quiet and utterly humourless. 'Perhaps, my friend, or perhaps de circumstances dat drive you from your wife an' your young ones to sit in silence in de rain, mean dat you 'ave come to see how de faithless man can be de liability also, no matter 'is skill wit de rifle, eh?'

Balthier twitched, the rain water dripping from the gold thread embossed cuffs of his white shirt chilling his bones. He narrowed his eyes at the other man who stood directly before him and faced him with all the presence and command of a man who knows that although he was the one who took the beating the last time they faced each other, he had for all his apparent pain, come out the enduring victor of their skirmish.

'Enough with the allusions, it is raining and I am wet, make your point, name your price and let's get on.' Balthier said levelly.

This would not be the first time he had found himself with his back against the wall with nowhere to run and no recourse but to pay his dues, however familiarity (albeit sparse, he did not lose so very often after all) did nothing to make the sting easier to deal with.

A crack of distant thunder seemed to conspire with Al-Cid in his moment of triumph and the Rozzarian shook his head, swiping wet hair from his face.

'Ah, no, it shall not be dat way, my friend. You 'ad your say in Mikanel, extracted de price in blood dat you felt was owing. Dat I do not argue wit de need for penance does not mean I 'ave no recourse to argue over de right you claim to be de one delivering such, eh?'

Balthier fought the scowl now seemingly permanently engraved upon his brow and forcibly refused to acknowledge the knot of unpleasant brutality in his hindbrain that suggested that it would be really rather satisfying to crack Al-Cid across the chops once more, just for good measure.

Exposure as a violent fraud, some form of punitive punishment, even Ashe's disappointment and censure he would endure as his dues for an action that had so haunted him already, but Balthier could not and would not endure a moralistic sermon from a man who could not even save one tiny child (his own citizen) from a painful and ignominious death in a middle of a battle fought in her name but without her consent.

'Spare me.' Balthier spat. 'Whatever my failings, you are still, and always will be, no more than a failed politician.'

Al-Cid shrugged expressively casual shoulders. 'Dat remains to be seen, I 'ave not yet put forward my proposal.'

A dark and furtive smile flickered over Al-Cid's face as Balthier, swiping the damp fringe of his hair from his own brow, looked at him sharply. So, this was the baited hook, a proposal?

Balthier regarded the man narrowly; he recognised the opening gambit for a complicated blackmail as easily as he had seen Penelo's clumsy attempt telegraphed in her every nervous twitch.

'I believe dat men can be defined by two key characteristics, my friend, deir fear an' deir beliefs. Dere are some men who will do anyt'ing for deir beliefs be it killing a man or dying for does higher ideals, an' den deir are does men who are driven by deir fear so completely dat dey 'ave no room for any 'igher belief.'

Balthier repressed the almost overwhelming urge to hit the man before him as the rain lashed down on them both, creating a slinking grey curtain that cut off their tense, unfolding drama from the drab, wet, grey-hued shadows of the desert and the storm battered Oasis.

'You are de man who is driven by your fear, no?'

Al-Cid called Balthier a coward to his face in so many words with the ease of one discussing the weather, or perhaps, more accurately, with the confidence of a man who knows that he has far too much leverage against his opponent for the other man to have any recourse but to listen in seething silence.

'You made de career out of running away from de commitments of life, dat is so, eh? First from your wealth an' de status of your heritage, den you play de dead man so dat de Lady Ashe for a time fear you dead, for you fear de responsibility of 'er gratitude, no? You are de man who runs an' say he believe in nothing because it is easier than failing in what he believe, I think dis is so.'

Balthier's fists were so tightly clenched his short, carefully clipped nails, cut into his palms. He wondered in the small part of his mind still capable of objectivity, if Al-Cid realised just how close he was to another beating?

It was not the words Al-Cid spoke or the allusion to the weakness in his character, his propensity to flee when flight was an option and worry not for what was lost in that escape. Nor was it the insinuation of cowardice that was part and parcel of such allegations. Gods knew he had heard insults aplenty of a similar vein from wiser souls than this self-important aristocrat (Fran had called him a foolish, vain, child of a Hume for striking out at Al-Cid Margrace and had had occasion, and taken full advantage of such, to call him worse in the past).

What filled Balthier with a wordless, dangerous fury was the fact that for all his veiled curses and sly aspersions, Al-Cid Margrace and all the others that had called him coward and turncoat and worse in the past, had managed to make a fundamental mistake when judging the great flaw in Balthier's character. It was not that he was a faithless coward at all.

No, the real reason that Al-Cid was in danger right this moment was not because he was tempting the seething rage of an accursed coward, but instead, a man who, in his deepest soul, knew himself to be a villain.

Balthier, with the cold knowledge of a man who had been raised with principles and morals instilled in him by rote (if perhaps with little genuine conviction) from birth and yet had still gleefully broken every taboo when he declared himself pirate and free, knew that if he really wanted to he could convince Ashe of anything.

He could excuse himself of any crime (and had already done so in public court before some seven hundred of her citizens) in her eyes, if he really wished it so, because she loved him and he knew that the means to control the Queen was through her heart, which he already owned.

Thus the only thing, the _one and only_ reason, that Balthier was even listening to Al-Cid attempt to blackmail him now, was because he felt guilty and wanted to deny to himself that he was the snake in the grass, black-hearted bastard that, deep down inside, he knew himself to be.

'I am to make de proposal to Larsa, Marquis Ondore an' de Lady Ashe on de morrow, I 'ope, in de spirit of co-operation you will be lend your backing to such a proposed action?'

Balthier met the keen eyes of the ambitious, but otherwise good man Al-Cid Margrace, and felt his own lips twitch into a familiar smirk.

It was ironic that he should miss the gist of Al-Cid's proposed plea-bargain, having been too busy berating himself for his inner evils. Somehow he thought it would make a bad business all the worse if he asked the Rozzarian idealist to repeat his threats as he had not given due polite attention the first time.

Instead Balthier gave Al-Cid an insouciant little smirk, and shrugged his shoulders, arms folded across his chest (noting to himself as his shirt clung to his flesh wet and itching, that he really should be getting out of the rain before he caught his death from the damp).

'I hold no formal rank or office in Dalmascan governance or in the international arena. I make a poor ally to your ambitions, sir.' He drawled, hoping that it was not too obvious that he had entirely failed to listen to the unveiling of said ambitious scheme.

'It is not de man wit' de public rank dat hold de power. Power is at its most effective, eh, when no outside eye can see de strings being pulled.' Al-Cid conceded.

'De Lady Ashe holds de honour of being revered even by dose not born in Dalmasca, even in Archadia dey speak of de Dynast Queen wit' de respect. Through her actions dese five years past she make herself de power around which Ivalice's elite revolve...an you, my friend, are de power in de wings dat she turn to when she need de last minute rescue.'

Al-Cid's words, the words of a consummate politician who knew well where the strings lay and how to pull upon the puppets of Ivalice, left a sour taste in Balthier's mouth. He might be a thoroughly jaded bastard but even to him, a man without belief or faith, there were some things that were inviolate Ashe being primary among those few beings Balthier cared for more than himself.

'I will not abuse Ashe's trust by giving her bad advice just to save myself embarrassment.' He snapped, now truly regretting having not listened to Al-Cid's 'proposal' of moments before. If nothing else he could have warned Ashe of her _friend's_ possible ill-intentions (if he in fact had any – damn his inattentiveness).

Al-Cid, thoroughly soaked through, smiled as he slipped his sun-glasses back on over his eyes. 'That is why, for all dat you lack de fortitude of conviction, you are no liability to de Lady Ashe, my friend, because you at least believe in 'er.'

Al-Cid turned away from the Oasis with one last nod of farewell, 'til de morrow, my friend. If not'ing else it should be an interestin' meeting.'

With a languid wave the self-styled man of peace moved swiftly towards the Walk of Heroes and the promise of dry clothes and a respite from the rain within the Paling dome of Rabanastre.

Balthier, forced to wait until the other man was far enough in front that he would not have to endure walking with him, trudged back towards his wife's kingdom, feeling as though he carried twice his own body weight in rain water on his person. With his head down and eyes averted from the list of names of all those who had fallen in battle against his countrymen, or gods curse his soul, as a direct result of his own father's vaulting belief in his scientific endeavours.

Balthier went directly towards the nursery when he finally reached the stifling, claustrophobic, but _thankfully__ dry_ enclosure that Rabanastre under the Paling had become.

He wanted to bask in the warm glow of his children's love; both of them far too young to turn against him yet. Balthier was so very tired of being a cynical, morally bankrupt bastard. He would so very much rather play the part of doting new father.

When he swung open the doors of the nursery (having at the last minute decided to take a detour to the Queen's chambers where he found dry clothing to change into) he was accosted by a sight that momentary startled all his dark thoughts from his mind.

Ashe, through the shimmering blur of a Bubble spell looked up, irritable frown at the intrusion already forming upon her brow, from where she sat in the rocking chair, one baby to her breast.

'Where have you been, and why is your hair wet?'

Her tone was fractionally less accusatory due to the tiny, snuffling presence of the tiny infant clamped to her teat. Balthier, feeling the familiar discomfort of being around such an intimate and maternal display, averted his eyes as he went to perch on the window seat.

'Standing in the rain.' he replied jauntily, 'I was feeling a mite dehydrated. But enough about me, what is this Highness, the little ones are out of confinement already?' He added with a genuine smile.

Ashe was suitably diverted as he knew she would be and smiled dotingly down on the dark head that remained pressed to her chest. Balthier told himself sternly not to give any physical expression to the squirming he felt inside at witnessing what was, he told himself in sharp rebuke, a perfectly natural part of motherhood.

'It was agreed that breastfeeding would help our children grow stronger sooner. As long as I remain within a properly cast Bubble spell they are perfectly safe.'

'Well, I shall leave you to it then.' Balthier rose from his tentative perch on the window seat keen to make his swift escape.

'Balthier.' Ashe called him back before he was half way to the door reluctantly he turned back to her, blandly pleasant half-smile firmly in place upon his countenance.

'Hmm?'

Ashe had removed the baby (and yes, Balthier felt some small qualm for not having the paternal sixth sense to tell which child it was...it was unfortunate that wrapped in swaddling clothes and with their eyes closed they both looked exactly the same to him) from her breast and was now stroking the almost bald head with its fuzz of dark downy hair with a loving hand.

'Our children are nearly a week old, they must be shrived by a priest and formally given their names.' She informed him with all the solemnity of one passing on momentous news.

Balthier, wondering if he had missed some manner of subtext preceding this statement, said nothing. After all it was only natural that they should name their children something other than 'girl' and 'boy'. However he had expected Ashe to already have some manner of properly traditional name in mind as it seemed to him (with his albeit severely limited knowledge of such things) the sort of thing a mother would do.

Perhaps realising that his uncharacteristic silence was a symptom of a lack of understanding Ashe rolled her eyes, sighed with long suffering irritation, and deposited the baby back into the cradle. After whispering a swift incantation to first erect another Bubble shield around the cradle and then to 'pop' the spell around herself Ashe walked over to him.

'In case it had escaped your notice Balthier, you have done such a good job of making yourself scarce after all,' she added with clear reproach that his over active conscience lapped up with masochistic delight, 'we have yet to decide on names. We have not even discussed it, beyond your assertion that you wished to name our daughter after a dead child.' She added acerbically.

Balthier winced as the barb hit home. He was not overly proud of that suggestion (if one could call it such) but then he had so many things in his recent past to be less than proud of that he was growing tired of keeping track.

'I take it you do not wish to name our daughter after a dead child?' Balthier queried dryly, wondering if he was headed for another pointless argument with his wife.

Ashe stood before him with her arms folded across her stomach, unconsciously mimicking, with purely habitual annoyance, Balthier's casual stance.

'I don't believe that it would be appropriate either for our daughter or as a tribute to the memory of Alfayna.' Ashe said deliberately softening her tone in an awkward attempt to express sympathy and understanding.

Ashe's clumsy attempts to be anything other than the fierce and headstrong creature that she was always instilled in Balthier a paradoxical sense of affection. Lazily he wrapped his arms about her and tugged her against him.

'Hmm, so you have an alternative suggestion?' He murmured, thinking that she was right and he would never have really wanted his bright eyed baby girl to carry the name of the doe-eyed child he had known for so brief a time and betrayed so utterly.

'I would like to name her for my uncle. Halim was at my side throughout my labour and has been as a father to me, these last few years.' Ashe said her words muffled as she rested her head against his chest.

Balthier, perhaps not operating at optimum mental acuity, frowned. 'You wish to call our daughter _Halim_?'

Ashe jabbed him painfully in the ribs, mistaking a moment of Vaan-like stupidity for a failed attempt at levity, '_Halina_ which is the feminine of the name Halim. I had thought to call her Halina Amalia, for my mother also.'

_Halina-Amalia _Balthier smiled slightly and nodded his head minutely, as he rested his chin on the top of Ashe's head. _I shall call her __Hallie._

'I'm sure the Marquis will be delighted,' Balthier said with simple honesty, 'But what of our boy? Be warned though Highness that if you say you wish to call him either Rasler or Basch I shall disavow all further contact with him. No son of mine will ever be called _Basch_.'

_Or __Rasler.__ A dead former husband is something to be accepted and endured, but a man must have some pride__, I don't want my son__ named__ for a dead man. _

Balthier added silently, though he said nothing out loud as Ashe gave him another jab to the ribs, in response to his remarks about her beloved captain. Then she laced her hands behind his back, after first pulling his shirt loose so she could splay her fingers over his naked flesh, and nestled her cheek more comfortably against his chest.

'Heios.' Ashe said with a certain hesitancy, as if she expected him to object. 'It is a name that traces its roots back to the days of Raithwall and is respected in both Dalmasca and Nabradia.' She added swiftly.

_And was also Prince __Rasler's__ middle name, though clearly I am__ not__ supposed__ to__ know that. _Balthier thought dryly, though with little real rancour. A Prince needed a name fit for his station and such a name as Heios would make the people happy. It was no worse a name than _Ffamran_ he supposed.

'Heios and Halina it is then,' he declared in good cheer, 'And we have even managed alliteration as well.' He added with sudden realisation, smirking as Ashe lifted her head to regard him, however her serious eyes caused him to stop smiling.

'Heios _Demen_.' Ashe corrected him, 'Halina Amalia and Heios Demen Dalmasca.' She intoned watching him the way one might watch a fiend spotted prowling near-by, cautious and wary but resolute.

Balthier felt his arms drop from around her. He took a step back and walked almost distractedly to the cradle. 'I don't like that name so much.' He said and even to his own ears he sounded like a somewhat petulant child.

'It is a good name, Demen. It has a lineage almost as long as Heios. A name with roots in Landissian dialect from long before the first stone of Archades was laid.' Ashe began reasonably.

Balthier frowned, looking down on his sleeping children, 'I _know_ where the name comes from, and do not tell me you have picked it for its ancient history.'

Ashe stepped up behind him and touched his back. For no real reason he shook off her touch and stepped away from her and the cradle.

'Ffamran, then.' Ashe said, with just a trace of both irritation and appeal in her voice. 'If you won't have Demen, let your son have your name, the one you don't want.'

'That name is worse.' Balthier muttered gaze seeking refuge in the storm tossed horizon beyond the window.

_Yes, worse, _Balthier thought in a muddled sort of way, _because __Demen__ was the lesser known name of a man who may have been a monster but at least had the courage of his convictions. __Ffamran__ is the name of a man who created another name to hide behind because he did not want to face his own short-comings. _

'I thought you would take this better than you are.'

Ashe said with all the dejected impatience of a woman who has been plotting since the birth of her children how the broach the subject and could not completely understand his reticence. Balthier did not entirely blame her, his own feelings made little sense to him and he knew he had no hope of explaining them to her, even if he had had any desire to try.

Feeling like a man with no safe haven and no port to shelter from the storm; a man driven from the refuge of his children's silent, unquestioning, insensible love by the expectations of their mother, their mother's allies, relations, subjects and friends, Balthier turned away from Ashe, the cradle, and the nursery he had so lovely prepared himself.

He felt as if the expectations of all those innumerate individuals who either wished he would die (most of her councillors), wished he was a considerably better man than he was (Basch) or wished to use and extort the ill in him for their own ends (Al-Cid, Halim Ondore, even little Penelo) were chasing him from where he felt safe and he had nowhere left to run.

'Call him what you will, Ashe. It makes little difference to me.' He told her callously, and completely untruthfully, as he left the nursery in his own cloud of ill-temper.

Had he stayed, had he thought for a moment that she might have understood him more completely than he gave her credit for, he might have realised that she was trying to give him a gift. Trying to restore a little of the sense of self that he thought he had thrown from him long ago never to regain.

Yet he did not stay, instead Balthier left the place and the people who might have made him feel marginally better in the height of his own indignant pride and persistent depression. Deep inside he pondered the reason why her choice of middle name for their son had so upset him.

It wasn't bad association, particularly, it was more that he loved his children so completely and so easily (and he was man enough to admit that loving others did not come easily to someone as unrepentantly self-centred as he was) that he did not want that love tainted.

He loved his son and his daughter because he believed that he had given in their conception everything he had to give that was good. They had been born to perfection as far as he was concerned and his greatest fear was that they might grow up to be like him.

He did not want his son burdened with such a legacy and it seemed that even in imparting on him a name from his family line Ashe enacted some form of horrible self-fulfilling prophecy that Balthier would do anything to prevent befalling his boy.

A father, Balthier believed, should want better for his own children than his own lot in life, and gods only knew the mess he had made of his own existence. Balthier, thoroughly miserable as he had not been since he was sixteen and terrified of all his life had become, found himself pondering if perhaps the best thing he could do for his son and his Hallie was in fact to take flight and never return?

* * *

_A/N: __y'know__ I don't know why but __Balthier__ is determined to be depressed throughout most of this story...his numerous issues just won't let lie...ah, well, death cures all as they say! ;)_


	22. Chapter 22

**An Interlude of Diplomatic Unions**

_A/N: warning gratuitous fluff and hijinks within this chapter...out of character, possibly, or possibly Larsa is not quite the boy people think he is ;)_

* * *

Penelo had witnessed and been party to any number of exciting and pivotal moments in Ivalice's recent history.

She had fought aboard the Bahamut, she had fought in the massacre of Mount Bur-Omisace and she had danced in the streets during the coronation of Queen Ashelia. She had even fought in the battle of Bahamut Rising, one week past, that everyone could tell was destined to go down in history as the moment three major powers in Ivalice came together to fight a common foe.

This moment, standing quietly in attendance in the Rabanastran grand audience chamber, was another one of those big, important moments that would change the whole of Ivalice and again, Penelo was right there as it all happened.

Yet for all the pathos and power of the moment, Penelo could barely spare the time to listen to Ashe, Al-Cid and Marquis Ondore as all the important people in Ivalice (or so it seemed) gathered around the big table of state and plotted what they were going to do next; how they were going to make everything right again.

Penelo twisted her hands around as she clasped them tightly together and tried to think only about what was happening now and not about what had happened _earlier_ with Larsa.

Even thinking about what she was deliberately not thinking about made her cheeks warm and she had to bite down on the almost irrepressible desire to giggle like a girl.

She tried to ignore Larsa's glossy dark head in front of her. He sat at the table flanked by Zaagabaath and Basch (though Basch was supposed to be representing the newly free Republic of Landis which hadn't had time to send anyone else) and every time he spoke Penelo had to deliberately blank her thoughts. Not that Larsa's _voice _had anything to do with what happened earlier, but still, it was enough to set her almost to giggling.

Penelo, standing behind Larsa's chair in a position of trust, couldn't help but notice her similarities to Balthier who lounged with one hand resting on the top of Ashe's chair of state, standing at her right hand where a consort should be.

It occurred to her that no one present in the room had so much as blinked an eyelash that she, Penelo the orphaned shop-girl, should be standing at Larsa Solidor's right hand just like a royal consort. Penelo, who was already trying not to think about _earlier,_ added this circumstance to the list of things she could not think about.

It occurred to her with all the taboo subjects taking up space in her head she would soon have no room to actually think about anything at all.

'You are saying is that we have no way to confirm whether the Empress Hepzibah is dead or if Mishman is using the possibility of his wife's death as justification to march upon the slopes of Mount Bur-Omisace?'

Ashe's sharp, clear voice sliced effectively through the mish-mash of arguing voices up and down the table. The bickering and conjecture that had been going on at great length regarding the Rozzarian invasion force that had left Rabanastre and was now headed for Mount Bur-Omisace, just as Ashe had feared it might, stopped as if it had never been.

'We must assume that this has been part of Mishman Margrace's plan all along.' Marquis Ondore said from further down the table.

Ashe shifted in her carved and gilded chair of state. She drummed her fingers on the arms as she frowned into a middle distance. Everyone in the chamber watched her waiting to see what the Dynast Queen would say or do next.

Wearing her coronet and dressed in a high-waisted loose flowing dress of red cotton with white slashed sleeves, the Sword of Kings held in her free hand loosely like a walking stick, Penelo wondered if Ashe even realised how like the fabled queen of fire and ice she truly looked.

'I'm not sure they even have a plan. Everything they have done appears no more than the actions of violent, crazed zealots. We may be making a mistake assuming they have a strategy at all.'

'Equally it may be a misassumption to take their zealousness as a given and look no further, madness can be a facade to hide greater crimes.'

Penelo couldn't help but jump as Larsa spoke up. He had been sitting quiet and neat with his hands clasped together on the table top throughout the earlier heated debate, now his tone was as polite and measured as ever, but nevertheless his quiet, calm words brought the other dignitaries around the table to instant attention.

Penelo, who had always thought that Larsa had a lovely way of speaking, simple, elegant without being clever for the sake of cleverness, couldn't help but feel strangely pleased at how carefully all the other people in the room listened to Larsa, who she thought, was most likely the youngest person present.

'The Kiltia Ascendancy may be a ruse to hide a more secular agenda.' Larsa continued. 'We simply do not know. I am not sure that there is anyway to know unless we can hear it from the lips of Mishman and Hepzibah themselves.'

Penelo found herself sub-consciously nodding her head along with Larsa's words and she was pleased to see that no one at the table (which was also filled with members of Ashe's new cabinet and Bhujerban officials, people with reason to hate anything to do with Archades on principle) argued or dismissed what Larsa said simply because he was Archadian and everyone was so used to the Empire being the enemy.

Almost without realising it Penelo placed her hand on the top of Larsa's chair. She only noticed the significance of what she had done when she looked across the table to see Vaan giving her an odd look from where he stood a little behind and to the left of Ashe's chair.

Freezing in self-conscious surprise Penelo did not know whether to remove her hand or leave it there; for just a moment Penelo's roving eyes met Balthier's and he winked at her.

Peenlo swiftly looked away, yet, despite her embarrassment (which she did not really understand) she found herself strangely empowered and left her hand curled around Larsa's chair.

She decided, keeping her hand on Larsa's chair, deliberately mimicking Balthier's stance at Ashe's side, that if Larsa didn't mind her presence, and from the way he managed to lean his head back (ever so casually, he really was a stealthy flirt) so that the back of his dark head and the silky strands of his hair brushed her knuckles she guessed that he didn't, then surely no one else could object.

After all, it was only her hand on his chair, what had happened _earlier_ was much more scandalous. Penelo, failing to hide her furtive little smile, decided to studiously study the pattern of rose marble and lacquer tiles on the floor as she indulged herself with the forbidden fruit that was the memories of _earlier._

It had been only this morning that it had all happened. The moment that might, possibly, though she didn't know yet, have changed everything between her and Larsa.

_Penelo, having no prescient foreknowledge of what was about to happen had decided to visit Larsa and see if he wished to have breakfast with her. _

_As the big heads of state war council was planned for later that day Ashe had publicly invited Larsa into the city and the palace as an honoured guest, thus Penelo had taken it upon herself to go to his guest suite and bid him good morning._

_The two Dalmascan guards at the door had recognised Penelo and immediately stepped aside. The two Archadian guards, who were really only there for appearance and couldn't do much unless the Dalmascan guards let them, didn't have much choice but to let Penelo in either. _

_It had made a change, that was for sure, and indulging in some very uncharacteristic smugness, Penelo had made sure to smile with extra sweetness at the sour faced and put out Archadian Guard, who could do nothing but glare in return. _

_Stepping into the suite, which was a nice set of rooms that any Emperor would be happy to spend time in, it did not occur to Penelo to knock or make sure Larsa was ready to receive her (receiving people being what emperors did as simply letting people in was only something common people did, or so Penelo had surmised, somewhat ironically, from her time in Archades). _

_It would always be a mark of some amusement to Penelo ever after that had she knocked or announced herself as she would have done in almost any other circumstance, she would never have caught the Emperor of arguably the most advanced empire in Ivalice performing his morning exercises as naked as the day he was born._

'It matters not in de 'ere an' de now what my brother's true desires are or where 'is true faith lay, what matters is what he 'as done an' will do.'

Penelo started with surprise as she was snapped into the present by the current topic of conversation, and could not help but feel vaguely resentful as Al-Cid's words forced her out of her memories; though she should probably not have been day-dreaming during such an important meeting. If she wanted to be taken seriously she should pay attention to what was going on, she scolded herself.

'I 'ave de proposal for a way to beat my brother an' 'is wife at deir own game, eh….'

Penelo watched Al-Cid Margrace's sunglasses flash about in his hand as he gestured with them like a man waving a tiny magickal staff or measure. Watching the backwards and forward motion of those glasses and listening to the syrupy heaviness of Al-Cid's words Penelo could feel her thoughts falling back down through time to _earlier……_

………_.'Oh!' _

_Penelo was not a child; she was not an innocent, though no one would call her a brazen young woman either. She had _seen_ naked men before. She knew what was there to see and where it all _hung out_. However, as her eyes made sense of what they were seeing (and had not expected to see), her mind couldn't help but point out (slightly hysterically) that she had never seen _naked Larsa_ before._

'_Penelo?' _

_Like a comedy of errors things went from embarrassing to disastrous pretty quickly, as soon as time, frozen in response to Penelo's stunned surprise, snapped into play once more. _

_Larsa, who had been stretched out on the wolf pelt rug performing toe touches, leapt to his feet in a beautiful ripple of well toned athletes muscle and pure, boyish embarrassment, which only exposed _everything_ to show._

_Penelo, more embarrassed than she had been when, at age twelve she had walked in on her brother Felto and the haberdashery girl making the beast with two backs on the pantry floor, spun about on her heels and promptly ran straight into the closed wood door to the chamber._

_Rebounding off the door she had tripped over a corner of the very same rug Larsa had been exercising on and even as she fell backwards with a yelp her mind was replaying to her the indelible impression of Larsa's fine, taut calf muscle, the graceful arch of his surprisingly strong shoulders and spine, the immaculate, stark contrast of his pale skin to his midnight dark hair and the brilliance of his blue eyes, unmarred by clothing to distract the eye. _

_Even at the time Penelo had thought it all terribly unfair. This sort of thing was not supposed to happen to her. She was the tough, durable, Penelo orphan-warrior-saviour of Rabanastre surely she should not be so clumsy, or quite so embarrassed?_

_Needless to say, Larsa, a consummate gentleman even when he was wearing not a stitch, rushed forward to catch her, failed to consider things like momentum and gravity and Penelo's weight (she might look feminine, but it was a healthy, sturdy sort of feminine) and they both collapsed in a heap onto the fur rug, Penelo sprawled in the Archadian Emperor's naked lap. _

_There had followed immediately after a moment of confusion and then a scrabble to disengage from each other, and in Penelo's case to do so without touching any particular parts of the Emperor's anatomy that would not usually be exposed to said (entirely) accidental touch. _

'_Penelo are you quite alright?' _

_Solicitous to a fault, Larsa gathered his limbs underneath him with the bouncy energy of a seventeen year old and crouched beside her. Penelo, still sat in an ungainly heap on the rug, could not meet his eyes and so looked down…..which proved to be the very, very worst thing she could have done. _

_Penelo, who had once seen a man beheaded by an axe (anyone who said Basch was a gentle man had clearly never seen him handle a warhammer) and had been forced to run to avoid being all but drowned in the gouts of free flowing blood, was nevertheless amazed by how much blood she possessed inside her that it could all rush to her head at once, as it was right that moment. _

'_Larsa….you are naked.' _

_She accused him, feeling somehow that it was very, very wrong that the nice, polite, compassionate, very proper, always buttoned up, Emperor of the very proper Archadian Empire should be crouched before (without anything between him and his modesty, though, she could not help but notice, he had no reason to feel modest) looking like he was biting his tongue trying not to laugh._

'_Forgive me, Penelo, but you are right. I am quite unclothed.' _

_More astounded then she would be if Balthier had worn a shirt that was not white, she had watched Larsa casually stand up and stroll over to where his fluffy white bathrobe was draped over the back of a chair. _

_As he walked (surprisingly slowly) towards the chair, Penelo had little to do (except close her eyes and she wasn't going to do that, she was startled but not a prude) but watch the play of muscle from shoulder down a gently curving back to tapered waist and down to long legs. It was something like a symphony of lean, lithe sinew and graceful, flawless white skin._

_Penelo had to swallow a sigh of disappointment when Larsa flung on the robe and tied the sash tightly about him. When he turned back to her, his dark hair falling into his sparkling blue eyes, he managed to look perfectly normal, as if he wasn't wearing only a robe and seconds earlier nothing at all._

'_I like to perform my morning exercise before I bathe, this way I do not need to bathe twice. Clothing would only be an encumbrance and become sweat soiled, so I do not bother with it.' He explained gently. 'I did not mean to startle you.' _

_Penelo remembered clearly agreeing, inside her own head, that clothing (at least on him) was very definitely an unnecessary encumbrance, before she had scolded herself and demanded that she stop behaving like some sort of hussy and forced her mind to other things. _

_Reminding herself firmly that she was older than Larsa and supposed to be the more worldly, she narrowed her eyes at him and stood up, drawing herself to her full height. _

'_You, Larsa Solidor, are nothing more than a flirt. You must have heard me outside your door.' _

_Larsa's eyes widened, brilliant blue and boyish, at her allegation, but something about the tiny twitch at the corner of his lips suggested that he definitely wasn't the innocent, desperately earnest and sweet twelve year old boy she had first met in Bhujerba all those years ago (which, of course, she now had very definite _physical _evidence of as well, a voice in her head reminded her)._

'_Penelo are you suggesting that I would indecently expose myself to you, simply for my own twisted amusement?' He asked deeply aggrieved, or at least pretending to be._

_Penelo was not fooled, she had had six brothers after all, and her best friend was _Vaan_ for goodness sake. Vaan's seduction technique was hardly what anyone would call sophisticated, following along the lines of 'hey, you look nice, I have a big sword, want to see it?' _

'_Uh-huh, that's exactly what I'm saying. You are a dirty little boy, Larsa Solidor!' _

_If she had expected Larsa to be embarrassed or apologetic (which she had at the time, Larsa was nothing if not polite and proper most of the time) she was in for another surprise that morning. Larsa's eyes had glittered with a bright, almost impish laughter that soon spilled from his lips, rippling through the air in an almost touchable flood of sound._

_Penelo folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot waiting for him to stop laughing at her; she didn't quite know what to make of this new side of Larsa. She had to keep reminding herself that the Emperor in dishabille (a Bhujerban word that she had once gleaned from a Bhujerban romance novel found in Ashe's private library) was still the honest, kind young man she knew. _

_It was amazing how many times in recent past Larsa had done or said something that had surprised her. She really did wonder if she really knew him at all. _

_Of course this new, bold Larsa gave her the same fluttery feeling in her stomach that she had gotten when Larsa had warned Zaagabaath that he would have the Judge locked up if he didn't let them go to Balfonheim. _

_Larsa wasn't a child anymore and although she didn't know ( and didn't think anyone knew) what kind of man Larsa Solidor was becoming she thought that it might be quite exciting to find out. _

'_Forgive me, Penelo.' Larsa had said when he had finally managed to control his laughter. 'You are right, it was very wrong of me, but in my defence I only had a split seconds warning between hearing your approach and your entry. I suppose I should have called out, or tried to reach my robe in time…..'_

_He had trailed off finally looking abashed, though not as embarrassed as Penelo thought he should be, or at least might have expected the dutiful, always polite boy he usually pretended to be might should have been. _

_Not at all sure what to do she tried to look haughty and disapproving, imagining the faces of the ladies of the Archadian court as a reference (though she then found herself thinking about how the ladies of Archades would react to having walked in on Larsa's naked exercises and had to cut the thought off sharply). _

_It seemed to work for Larsa sighed, and Penelo watched his face fall into the set lines of careful guarded polite openness that was so familiar to him (and until that moment she had never seen how the mask pinched his features) and gestured politely for Penelo to take a seat, either on the small recliner by the balcony or the bed._

'_Truly Penelo, I am sorry, it was wrong of me….but sometimes I like to remind myself that I am still seventeen and not seventy, which I must confess, is easy to forget.' _

_Larsa had sighed dejectedly as he sat down on the chair that had held his robe, careful to make sure that the robe covered every part of him it could, properly. He managed a smaller, less expansive smile for her. _

_Penelo recognised it as his usual (polite to everyone) smile and immediately felt bad that she had teased him about his teasing. She knew that Larsa sometimes was terribly stifled by his duties, and the expectations on him, and really, she had come away with a very, very nice view this morning so she could hardly complain. _

_Penelo felt herself grinning wanting to make him feel better and keep her own back on him, just a little, 'Oh, trust me Larsa no-one would mistake you for a seventy year old.' _

_And then she had winked at him, boldly, which had made him blush bright pink and made Penelo feel quite better about the whole thing. _

'You are proposing we each march on Bur-Omisace?'

It was Ashe's sharp voice that again snapped Penelo out of happy day dreams and back to the war summit.

Ashe was leaning forward in her chair, her one hand tightly gripping the hilt of the Sword of Kings, while the other stretched across the table towards Al-Cid as if she wanted to drag him over the table towards her.

'You want us to walk, unarmed, up the slopes of Mount Bur-Omisace, where your brother and his full attack fleet are roistered and _ask _him to surrender? Have you gone insane?'

Al-Cid sat calmly across the table from a very angry Ashe. Penelo, having missed something important (though basking in the glow of her memories she found it hard to care), now took the time to look over everyone else around the table as Ashe stared daggers into Al-Cid.

Basch, sitting to Larsa side, shook his head slowly and he looked down at his hands loose on the table top, clearly not wanting to get involved. Marquis Ondore tapped one finger against the knob of his cane sceptically, that one soft noise the only sound. The others around the table shifted in their seats in agreement with Ashe's harsh words.

Penelo began to feel quite embarrassed that she had been too busy day dreaming to hear what Al-Cid said.

'I don't think Al-Cid is suggesting you march alone, Highness.' Balthier, who had been absolutely silent the whole way through the meeting, spoke out now.

Penelo was not the only one to look at Balthier in surprise, not only because being consort and having refused a crown or any power in government, Balthier usually kept his mouth shut when Ashe forced him to come to state meetings, but because he was also speaking out to defend Al-Cid Margrace.

'Fight fire with fire, Ashe. The Ascendancy has their weapons, we have ours.'

Balthier said slowly looking straight at Al-Cid with a strangely intent look in his eyes. Al-Cid smiled, and Penelo could not help but have the strange feeling that Al-Cid had known Balthier would speak out for him.

'My brother an' 'is wife use Faram as deir shield an' deir justification. Dey play de game of symbolism an' rhetoric, but you, de Dynast Queen, are a symbol too. If you were to ride out to Mount Bur-Omisace in opposition to war, to beseech Faram 'imsel' to spare 'is mortal children from de bloodshed, den it would be 'ard for Mishman to use de gods to justify 'is war in de eyes of his followers.'

Ashe narrowed her eyes and looked up at Balthier, as did everyone else, Balthier shook his head as if he really didn't want to say what he was about to say but said it anyway.

'The Ascendancy has a God who lets innocent children die; we have a Queen who goes into battle to save her kingdom while in labour.' Balthier shrugged ironically, 'I know who I'd believe in.'

Penelo, listening to the shocking developments of Balthier actually _agreeing _with Al-Cid with the same astonishment as everyone else, couldn't help but wonder, as she saw the Marquis Ondore's eyes widen in quickly hidden shock and Fran (standing so quietly in shadow against the far doors of the chamber) twitch slightly in surprise, if something very bad and secret was going on, something behind the words that Balthier spoke without ever once meeting Ashe's eyes.

And then she understood.

Penelo could feel her eyes widening as she looked between Balthier, Al-Cid and Ashe, who was also looking at Balthier with something very like surprise in her gaze. Penelo realised then, that while everyone else might think it was odd that Balthier was agreeing with Al-Cid, _she_ was the only one who knew the whole story.

Penelo was the only one who knew that Al-Cid must have succeeded where she had failed and managed to blackmail Balthier. Feeling cold in her bones Penelo wondered what, if anything, she should do?

'Dis war 'as 'urt de people of Rozzaria, Lady Ashe, de people need to believe in something as deir god now belongs to de men dat burn an' pillage and slaughter.' Al-Cid said passionately looking straight to Ashe.

'De name Margrace is soiled. De people threw me down, dey do not want me, eh? But even in Rozzaria dey know de Dynast Queen be a good queen. De Dynast Queen once fought de powers of wound-be gods an' won de freedom of her people, I ask dis now of you, Lady Ashe, my friend, will you ride out for de freedom of mine?'

As Penelo watched, biting her lip and wringing her hands, the smell of politics and secrets and strange alliances heavy in the air, Balthier leaned forward over the top of Ashe's chair of state and lowered his head as if he was going to whisper in her ear.

'You don't want a war Ashe and this is the only other option. Mishman is hiding in Bur-Omisace, no doubt hoping that we will not want to appear to be the heretics he claims we are by laying siege to such a holy place. This is an opportunity to stand by your principles Highness; don't go as a supplicant begging for peace but as a victorious queen riding to offer Mishman a fair surrender.'

Everyone held their breath; Penelo could imagine that no one even blinked. Ashe's face was absolutely still, almost a mask as she listened to Balthier's very carefully chosen words; only her eyes blazed with the reflected heat of her thoughts.

'The abuses of power still continue in Rozzaria, do they not, Your Grace?' Ashe demanded on Al-Cid suddenly.

'Yes, Lady Ashe, de pyres still burn on every street corner.' he said quietly.

Ashe nodded sharply, looking up briefly to Balthier who had stepped back from her chair and walked into the shadows to the back of the chamber. Penelo couldn't help but think he had done so because he didn't want Ashe to see that he had been blackmailed into saying what Al-Cid wanted him to say.

'You are asking me to assume responsibility for the people of Rozzaria, to free them from the mess your family has made?'

Al-Cid nodded again, 'I am, Lady Ashe.'

Penelo, although she wasn't feeling very happy with either him Balthier, couldn't help but be a little impressed that Al-Cid could accept Ashe's criticism so calmly and so sincerely ask for help.

Ashe's icy gaze swept over the room and Penelo held her breath, heart jumping in her chest, because she knew that look. It was Ashe's decisive look; she was ready to fight.

'Then this is what I decree. If you all believe I am such a talisman of freedom and good, then you will agree with these terms. Al-Cid, you will return to Rozzaria with a contingent of Dalmascan and Archadian soliders,' Ashe swiftly glanced to Larsa when she said this, remembering that she couldn't simply order Imperial soliders about.

Larsa, Penelo waiting eagerly for his words, nodded his head. 'Archadia is prepared to send troops, alongside Al-Cid and a Dalmascan platoon, into Rozzaria to safeguard the Rozzarian populace, though I would sooner not send in an invasion force.' He added looking down the table to his friend.

Ashe shook her head, 'Not an invasion force at all. The men will be armed, but their orders will be to only defend themselves and the food and supply wagons they will be escorting into the country. These wagons will be filled with medicines, foods, water, clothing. The Kiltia Ascendancy may have laid claim on Rozzarian souls but Dalmasca will send aid to safeguard Rozzarian bodies.'

Down the table Al-Cid Margrace smiled, as if Ashe was saying exactly what he had hoped she would. 'It is how it should be, eh? De soul is not de property of kings or princes.'

Ashe nodded, 'While Al-Cid travels to reclaim his home I will set forth for Mount Bur-Omisace under a flag of peace.'

She paused, turning to look first to Marquis Ondore, then to Basch and finally to Larsa, though for a moment, Penelo thought that Ashe looked at her too.

'I would appreciate the support of the Archadian Emperor and representatives of Bhujerba and Landis in this endeavour also. Dalmasca is not the only power in Ivalice that wishes there to be no more bloodshed.'

It was Marquis Ondore who spoke, Penelo, who had always been just a little wary of the man, who always spoke as if every word had ten different meanings than the most obvious one, found herself listening extremely carefully to him, knowing as she did so that momentous decisions were being made right at this moment.

' If we are to do as our fallen compatriot requests,' here the Marquis looked at Al-Cid in a strange and not particularly friendly way, 'and travel from Dalmasca, Bhujerba, Archades and Landis respectively, each under a canopy of peace, then we, at the very least, must make sure that military reinforcement is not far behind. We should go in peace but be prepared for war.'

No one argued with him. Ashe nodded her head and looked coldly, fiercely, thoughtful. Larsa nodded his head slowly.

'I think we would all like to be able to travel in peace with only peace as our shield and to sue for a peaceful end to this strife, but I agree with the Marquis. The Archadian thirteenth fleet will act as air support; not to enter the skies of Mount Bur-Omisace unless called, but within hailing range should our delegations be met with violence.'

'Rabanastre and Nalbina will remain under full Paling,' Ashe said slowly picking up on Larsa's thoughts, 'with most of the Dalmascan guard remaining in Dalmasca to defend the kingdom. We have been attacked unaware before; I shall not risk my people's safety again.'

'Majesty,' Basch spoke, Penelo had wondered how long it would be before he said something against this plan, 'Is this wise? If you were to be taken hostage, if something was to happen to you en-route then Dalmasca would be in far worse a state. It is ill-advised to ride out on such a mission.'

Ashe narrowed her eyes in the icy glare Penelo knew well the look had been known to quell Imperial soldiers from twenty paces.

'And yet for all that,' Ashe said sharply, not taking well to Basch's lack of faith in her ability not to get herself captured or killed, 'I am apparently the only woman in Ivalice who can bring about peace and must go on this pilgrimage as some manner of deified legendary queen to battle an unjust god.'

Ashe turned her dripping scorn onto Balthier who leaned against one of the pillars in a shadowy corner of the room, it was clear to everyone that Ashe suspected Balthier was up to something, though Penelo doubted she knew what was truly going on. Penelo found it hard to believe that Al-Cid could have really intimidated Balthier so much to make him say anything he did not want to say.

'Indeed, history does like to repeat itself. It shall be like old times.' Balthier's reply at least sounded like his usual self, though he still didn't exactly meet her eyes.

'We are agreed den?' Al-Cid drew everyone's attention back to him, 'We shall depart for our kingdoms, to set off on dis grand voyage, at first light on de morrow?'

Everyone agreed because no one could think of anything else to do and Penelo found herself falling into step beside Larsa as they left the chamber.

'Larsa I...' Penelo began suddenly as Larsa also chose that moment to begin with,

'Penelo it would...'

For a moment they both looked at one another in silence, not sure who interrupted who and therefore who should let the other finish. Then Larsa smiled, as they both stepped into a quiet alcove in one of the wide corridors of the Rabanastran palace.

'Forgive me, Penelo, you were saying?'

She clasped her hands together and met his bright eyes, 'I want to go with you Larsa. I would like to travel with you to Mount Bur-Omisace.'

She couldn't help but feel just a little guilty as she said it, really she should go with Ashe, who was her Queen, but the truth was the bond that was between her and Larsa was something more than duty or even friendship.

Right then it just seemed natural that she would be at Larsa's side on the road to Mount Bur-Omisace. Being at Larsa's side, standing with him as he faced down Mishman Margrace's army with only his courage and his good intentions seemed like the only place Penelo could be, the only place she would want to be; with him, supporting him, fighting for him.

Penelo watched as Larsa Ferrinas Solidor smiled brilliantly at her, a smile that still held the ghost of that earnest, wonderfully good and brave twelve year boy in the reflection of its radiance, but was also the smile of a young man, who was just, only just, reaching out for his power and his potential.

Larsa took up Penelo's hands and clasped them in his, 'Penelo, I cannot tell you how much I had hoped you would say that. I cannot imagine that anything ill could ever befall me while you are at my side. I would be honoured for you to ride with me.'

Penelo had the feeling, as they were momentarily distracted by Ashe, in a very bad temper, leaving the chamber being trailed by most of her cabinet, her uncle, Vaan and any number of hangers-on, that Larsa had offered and asked of her much more than he had said, but for the here and now she was simply happy that the confident, honest, courageous and sometimes scandalously unpredictable, young man holding her hands wanted to spend time with her, with simple Penelo.

Everything else could wait for if and when they survived the pilgrimage to Mount Bur-Omisace.


	23. Chapter 23

**Rabanastre: The Queen's farewell parade**

_A/N: I am doing something stylistically different here. In all of my stories up to this one I have maintained one narrative point of view throughout a chapter. With this chapter I am switching POV part way through, hopefully the reason for this will be obvious from the content._

_PS: 95 reviews….new record! Thank you all so much! Special mention goes out to Cable Fraga and Bluesparx for their reactions to angsty Balthier, which amused me greatly...and as always thanks to Zaz9 Zaa0 whose reviews are always gorgeous to read ;)_

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She had wanted to see. She had wanted to be close enough to see the sun dance in her rival's eyes. This woman had occupied so much of her thoughts, her every waking and dreaming moment, that she felt impelled to stand here, being knocked and jostled by the crowds, to watch the procession.

She had watched with not very great interest the cavalcade of the Archadian boy-Emperor leave the city. She had noted with mild interest that he looked fair of face and bright of eye for all that he was child of a wicked, immoral, blood soaked family and commander of an evil and spiritually bankrupt nation.

He was not a concern. Archadia would fall to the might of Faram in due time. Those without souls, those who revered the cold, empty spectacle of science and closed their hearts and minds to the divine would offer little real fight against the righteous.

She watched the traitor, the corrupter, the vile minded temporising politique, her husbands bane, Al-Cid, walk calmly below her where she stood on a public balcony, wearing his blazing sun colours.

To her it was the garb of the serpent under the jewel sun, the cowl of the coward, flanked on all sides by his silent women, his harem Al-Cid walked head held proud, a stallion under the sun guided by the stocky pale man, the Rabanastran male, creature of the idolater Queen. The one called _Ratsbane _apropos enough.

Finally her patience was rewarded and she saw her first glimpse of her rival, her nemesis, the woman who had become her enduring preoccupation from that one fated moment, years ago, when she had stepped from the desecrated ruin of the Gran Kiltias' chamber on the sacred mountain and declared in a voice devoid of reverence or emotion that beloved, sainted Anastasis was dead.

She had expected fanfare and the pomp of a born narcissist, instead she saw a young woman dressed in mud brown leathers and a hooded cape, sat astride a Chocobo, being led by her sin-eyed paramour, dressed in the smoke hued greys of moral ambiguity as if he was proud to declare his sinful state of being.

But it was not the Imperial pirate, father-slayer that mattered. Only _she_ mattered; the Idolater, the heretic. Only she glowed like alabaster, cold and perfect as a sculpture of ice, under the unforgiving Dalmascan sun.

Her oval face, a pure and terrible mask of near innocent youth and prettiness, was as blank and smooth, as devoid of Hume sentiment, as it had been when, covered in the blood of others, she had presided over the burning of Mount Bur-Omisace's dead after the hated Imperial scourge had come and gone. Then like a wraith at first light, with treasure pilfered from the Stilshrine of Miriam clenched in her bloody fist the Dynast heir had fled the destruction she had wrought.

That very same treasure, the Sword of Kings, was strapped to the back of the Chocobo she rode, as if she sought to flaunt her desecration of such sacred relics, stolen from the temple of Kiltia and made impure with the blood of all those mortal fools who had sought to prevent her rise to power.

Hanging from the other side of the Chocobo, a natural counter-point to the Sword of Kings, the Treaty Blade glinted in the sun. This woman, this icy Queen made of pride and sinful conquest, had taken the coin of false gods. Taken up their sword and turned upon them in her rampant desire for power.

Yes, she saw well the evil that was hidden, like a serpent in long grass, behind that impassive, girlish face, those cool, roving silvered eyes.

Even without her dreams, the whispered voice of Faram in her mind like a caress in her restless slumber, she would know it as her duty as a child of Kiltia to rid Ivalice of this pestilence.

She would tear from the very souls of all these men and women the sickness that found its ultimate expression in the rise of this most hated demagogue; the sickness of free-will.

It was not for the children of the Gods to stray from the ordained path, to seek to tear the old patterns apart and re-shape the Gods mortal kingdom anew. No mere queen of fleshly vice should command the hearts and inspire the souls of so many.

She was a false deceiver, a vile heretic. This idolatrous queen was at the head of a deadly plague that sort to tear the destiny of men's souls from the Gods rightful hands. It was up to her, and her beloved husband, to restore Ivalice to its natural state, blessed servitude to the gods of old.

She watched, one lone, unmoving, silent figure, in amidst the jubilant, enthusiastic cheering of the crowds, as the self proclaimed Dynast Queen, passed through the gates of the city on her way to take up arms against the valiant, righteous might of her own husband, her darling Mishman, Faram's chosen soldier.

With the joy of the truly liberated, she who had found the bliss that was servitude to the will of her god, she clutched at the serrated knife she held, point downwards, hidden in the folds of her robes (plain and unadorned for she could not wear the righteous colours of her god in the very heart of the idolater's domain).

Her eyes sought out the turrets and minarets of the Rabanstran Palace. She must cut away the foul issue of this deadly curse from the face of Ivalice. She was charged by Faram to rid the people of the sin of free-will.

Even a babe in the cradle when born from the very womb of the great iconoclast must become chafe to the scythe of her blade, must fall away into death and darkness so that Ivalice could be restored to a state of grace.

Even she, a woman defined by Faram as a creature of love and nurture, even she who had once longed for children until her god saw fit to rob of her of her fertility so that she might make the better blade of his wrath, even she must do her duty; even though it grieve her to contemplate such a heinous act.

The spawn of the Dynast must be eradicated.

It fell to her, this most solemn task, as she had known it would, when, despite her terrible pain, she had pulled herself from the wreckage of the airship and fled within the very walls of her most hated enemy.

She knew and did not need the constant reminder of her burned, bleeding and lacerated body to tell her, that death was coming for her. She welcomed it, knowing that for all she had done in his name Faram would welcome her to his right hand within the heart of final salvation.

She had but one last task to perform in this benighted mortal realm before she may ascend.

She would not suffer the progeny of the vile heretic to live. With her last breath she would dispatch the children of Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca to eternal damnation.

* * *

**On the back of a Chocobo in the Giza Plains**

Ashe hated Chocobos.

She came to this careful and considered opinion somewhere between her palace and the second time the Chocobo carrying her decided to buck and curvet pettishly, threatening to throw her off, in the hammering Rains of the Giza Plains.

'Damned thing.'

As Ashe concentrated on staying on the back of the ill-tempered bird, Balthier grabbed hold of the reins and the bridle bit and wrenched the birds head down and around to face straight once more, forcing the skittish creature to calm.

'I am getting off.'

Ashe leaned down a little from the bird and half-yelled to be heard over the thunder of the rain pulverising the ground. The thick, waxed hood she wore over her head made her feel claustrophobic and blinkered. It was like looking out at a tiny circle of light from a dark tunnel.

'You are doing no such thing.'

Balthier, managing to appear as irritable as the Chocobo, shot back in a growl, his own face almost hidden in the shadows of his own hood. 'Doctors orders, Highness, you are not to strain yourself.'

Ashe muttered an ill-mannered expletive and turned back to face front as their little cavalcade started forward through the driving rain once more.

Nothing in her recent experiences had gone anyway to improving her perceptions of physicians either. How anyone could think that sitting astride a jolting, nervous, fretful giant bird was supposed to be better for her still healing body than walking was entirely beyond her.

Her back was one slowly advancing, burning ache. It felt as if each vertebrae of her spine was a hot coal burning through muscle and sinew towards her stomach. Her inner thigh muscles throbbed with pain and her feet had already been numbed into nothingness by persistent pins and needles, forced as they were, to do nothing but hang in the stirrups.

Ashe had known pain far worse and more terrible than this, but it had been some time since she had been quite so miserable.

Although her hood and cloak, her riding leathers and her studded metal greaves kept her flesh warm and dry she was already liberally splattered in mud and filth kicked up from the feet of the Chocobo and the slippery, liquid mud ground beneath that ran like a stream beneath them.

The Rains, which fell like a solid curtain of drenching, cold, constant wetness, deafening and all encompassing created a drab, grey, thunderous vacuum in which all sights and sounds were swallowed in the sheets of silvered water that cascaded onto their heads.

Yes, Ashe was miserable indeed.

When one of the vanguard of the party, the soldiers leading the way through the treacherous ground of the Giza Plains, almost slipped down into a sinkhole of sucking mud and liquid quicksand, Ashe used the momentary distraction to leap off the back of the horrible creature.

Almost instantly her ankles twisted inward as her numbed and paralysed feet sank into the cloying, sucking mud almost to her shins. Blindly she reached out and snagged hold of the back of Balthier's coat shielded shoulders to catch her balance.

Balthier, who had turned away from her and the Chocobo to unholster his gun and take the watch as the rearguard moved in to help their unfortunate colleague, staggered as she stumbled into him, her cheek colliding with the centre of his back as she lost her balance completing and bore him face first into the mud, landing heavily on top of him.

The Chocobo 'waarrked' loudly drawing the guards' attention to their Queen's current inelegant state, collapsed on top of her husband, who she had knocked face first into the mud and who was currently trying to push Ashe off him before he suffocated in the slurry.

Feeling thoroughly wretched Ashe managed to kick and wriggle her way off of Balthier with the aid of one of the solicitous guardsmen who looked quite stunned when Ashe leapt to her feet, plastered in mud, and swore passionately, stamping her foot and kicking up a shower of foul stinking mud.

Balthier, freed of her weight bearing down on his back, managed to leap to his feet also, holding his hands out from his body and shaking huge dollops of mud from his fingers, the barrel of his gun, and his chest before turning a rather dryly bemused, mud slicked face towards Ashe.

'Did you do that deliberately Ashe?' As he spoke he took the time to spit mud from between his teeth and fish out the water canteen from inside his coat to swill out his mouth.

With his hood pushed down and his face turned up to the deluge, hoping that the downpour would clear the clinging black mud from his face, Ashe noticed guiltily that even his hair was covered in slime.

'Of course not.' she retorted hotly, 'It was an accident. I tripped.'

'You tripped?' Balthier drawled still trying to find a clean patch of cloth on his coat to use to clear the inner barrel of his gun of the mud that, if left, would congeal and clog the barrel of the weapon rendering it useless.

'Yes, I tripped; as I said. I don't see why I need repeat myself.'

Ashe, feeling profoundly foolish, folded her arms across her chest and tilted her chin up defiantly.

Balthier smiked, face now washed clean of mud, but red cheeked and rain stained from the cold water dripping from his chin. 'Sorry Highness, it must be the mud in my ears obscuring my hearing.'

Ashe glared at him as he slogged through the mud, dragging his feet that sank even further into the stinking black soil than her own, as he moved towards the Chocobo Ashe had just escaped.

'I am not riding that again.'

Balthier, catching hold of the reins and the bridal and gently the excitable bird, threw a mocking look over his shoulder to her. She saw that the rain was beading through his short hair and dripping from the end of his razor sharp nose.

'Suit yourself.'

Without further ado, and leaving Ashe standing beside the creature sunk up to the ankles in mud and hot with embarrassment, Balthier swung himself up into the saddle and leaned down to finish lengthening the stirrups to suit his longer legs.

Ashe opened her mouth on an exclamation of shock and irritation but Balthier's sunny, cynical grin cut her off. 'You don't wish to ride Ashe, fair enough, but I am mightily sick of trudging through this sludge.'

Ashe grabbed hold of the bridle of the Chocobo before he could spur the creature onwards, deeply conscious of the guardsmen standing in a loose protective circle around them watching their Queen have a mild domestic dispute with her husband.

This day was like to open up whole new levels of mortification and humiliation for her and it was not yet noon.

'Chivalry is truly dead I take it, that you would let me walk.' Ashe hissed.

Balthier chuckled looking down on her from the bird, which was, Ashe noticed, with high irritation, considerably more amenable to having Balthier astride its back than it had been her.

'You knocked me face first into the mud, Highness, even chivalry has its limits.'

'That was a gods' damned accident.'

She stomped her foot and the stupid Chocobo shied away from the splash of mud and liquid filth almost dragging Ashe of her feet as she still held onto the reins.

'So you said.' he waved his hand airily to elaborate that he clearly did not believe her protestation of innocence, 'Regardless, I still ended up face first in filth.'

When Balthier leaned down to take hold of her and help haul her up onto the saddle before him, Ashe, in a state of high pique, almost slapped his hands away. Instead she ended up back where she had begun, on the back of the Chocobo, wet, muddy, extremely sore and in a foul temper.

Balthier gave the order for their contingent of guards to start off once more, and feeling extremely contrary, Ashe had to bite her lip not to contradict him simply because she could.

As a form of non-violent protest against the various complaints and impositions on her person Ashe concentrated on leaning like a dead weight against Balthier and refused to take any initiative in guiding the horrible creature, leaving it all to him.

All of this was his fault anyway.

It had been his perfect aim with the cannon that had obliterated the ship the Empress Hepzibah was aboard and led to this most recent trouble.

_I never miss_ indeed. Damn him and his insufferable arrogance. Damn him that he was right and his aim was true (unlike the rest of him).

It was he who had persuaded her that this folly was a good idea. His soft, honeyed words in her ear telling her that he believed in her, that she was the Dynast Queen.

It had been his damnable assertion, made with eyes uncharacteristically devoid of cynicism, that if anyone could demand peace simply by virtue of her very presence it was she, which had sealed her fate and made this interminable misery a reality.

Damn him and his silver tongue. She should have cut it out when she first met him and saved herself a great deal of tribulation.

In fact if looked at from a particular perspective her current physical discomfort was his fault. She could not have contrived to conceive and give birth without his involvement, after all.

Bastard seducer with his smirk and his secretive looks, his constant sniping, his sly prods at her pride and her leadership during their quest that had first infuriated her and then defeated her as she came to depend on his constant questioning so that when he_ finally_ agreed with her she knew that she had made the right choice.

It was frankly amazing, Ashe discovered roughly an hour later when she had exhausted herself in finding supporting evidence that Balthier was directly and solely responsible for all her ills, just how easy it was to blame him for everything.

Perversely she was starting to feel quite a bit better, which was only partially because she had enjoyed taking her ire out of Balthier's hide within the confines of her own mind, and perhaps slightly more to do with the warmth of Balthier's hand, which had snaked between the seal of her cloak to press against her belly, tickling under her jacket to stroke her bare skin.

In much the same way his careful handling had settled their awkward Chocobo into a calm, steady canter, that one gesture relaxed Ashe considerably. She found herself paradoxically irritated that he could manipulate her so well with one inappropriate touch.

In many ways their whole affair had had its genesis on the back of a Chocobo in circumstances not too dissimilar to those she found herself in now. Ironically Ashe wondered what that might say about the strength of their marriage.

How many monarchs in history, Ashe wondered, had been seduced by their future spouses on the back of a beast of burden?

It was unseemly. Of course marrying a confirmed and unrepentant criminal was a somewhat controversial decision in itself.

She was reaping what she had sown. That was the answer, marry a man for passion, lust (and yes, love, true imperfect love) and this was what one had to expect. Most queens could allow their armies to fight their battles for them, but not she clearly, no, Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca must do it all herself.

If it wasn't for the fact that this was her lot in life and she was anything but in the mood for levity, the whole ridiculous affair would have been quite amusing.

Balthier's hand, warmth suffusing through her belly from his palm, flexed meditatively against her skin. His amused chuckle reverberated through her spine and made her shiver.

'What are you laughing at, pirate?'

She had not called him _pirate _in sometime, in truth he had not been one in some time, but something about the enforced intimacy of their circumstances, the familiarity of her general discomfort and the sly rumble of his amusement, took her back to a time and a place that held for her the memory of some of the worst moments of her life and, strangely, some of the best.

'Oh, nothing, Highness; it is just that this all seems rather familiar, does it not? I half expect to look up and see Basch glaring at me for daring to breathe in too close a proximity to your illustrious person, or for Vaan to make a moderate fool of himself by falling off his mount.'

Despite herself Ashe felt a smile touch up the edges of her mouth, 'Yes, I was thinking very similar.'

'Oh?' Balthier breathed his curiosity into the shell of her ear, managing to brush back the waterproofed hood with a careful flick of his chin so he could stroke her cheek with his lips as he did so.

Ashe did not allow herself to soften at his touch, even as it seemed that comfort flowed from his very proximity to ease her varied and sundry minor miseries. She was not sure she was ready to forgive him just yet.

'Yes. I was just thinking, in fact, that all my current woes can be tracked back to the moment I allowed myself, stupidly, to be seduced by a pirate on the back of a Chocobo en-route to Rabanastre.'

'Hmm, is that so? Funny, my recollection has it that you were the instigator of that little dalliance. You did try to undress me on the way to Jahara.'

Idly Balthier let his free hand, not engaged in keeping hold of the reins of the Chocobo, slide from her (still slightly distended and stretch marked, gods damn her luck) belly to her leg, where he gently pinched the skin high of her inner thigh with thumb and forefinger. Ashe smacked his hand away, pushing it back to press against her stomach, as she rather liked the sensation.

'I shall not fall for the same trick twice.' She informed him primly, rubbing at the pink patch on her flesh where he had pinched her.

'I have no idea what you mean, Highness.' Balthier said blithely untruthfully, shifting to make himself more comfortable on the saddle.

'In any regards, I rather think that if we are to catalogue who has suffered more misfortune from our liaison, I think you'll find I am the injured party.'

Ashe attempted to twist about to face him, momentarily astounded by his audacity, and succeeded in merely hurting her own tired muscles and smacking her head into his chin.

'In what way are you the worst off Pirate?' she demanded as he jerked back from her, withdrew his hand to rub his chin and jerked on the reins to settle the Chocobo, which had been startled by Ashe's sudden movements.

'Would you like a list, Highness?'

Ashe was forced to turn back to face front, unable to keep her body contorted in order to look back at him.

'Can you give me a list?' she shot back, issuing the challenge without thinking things through.

'Gladly.' Balthier's grin was in the hot, velvet rush of his triumph as she fell into another of his verbal traps.

'Number one, forgetting the various trials and tribulations which befell myself and Fran while escorting you all over Ivalice to regain your throne, I claim the third degree burns acquired on Bahamut as my first piece of evidence.'

Ashe again tried to shift in the saddle and this time Balthier's arm locking into place around her waist was all that kept her from splitting her sides in her desire to face him in his outlandish accusations.

'I did not ask you to crash the Bahamut the first time, that was your prerogative.'

'So you would have preferred I allow the fortress to annihilate Rabanastre, hmm? Highness, really, had you said at the time you could have spared Fran and I considerable trouble.'

Balthier was laughing at her behind his words she could hear the silent echo of his delight.

'That was not what I meant.' She muttered mulishly, though in truth there was very little real rancour involved.

'That is one thing, and I dispute it, can you offer any more?'

'You had me arrested and put on trial, effectively ending a very lucrative career in sky piracy.'

Ashe laughed aloud at this, causing a couple of the guard to look over at her askance; in better spirits and absorbed in her eternal battle of one-up-man-ship with her husband Ashe ignored their curious, disconcerted looks.

'Ha. You were caught defrauding Dalmasca's economy, you're lucky I did not have you publicly flogged.'

'You had me extradited to Archades, which was worse than a beating.' Balthier retorted, clearly recognising he could not win on the last point and changing tact.

'You were guilty of crimes in Archades and I was diplomatically bound to uphold the extradition treaty.'

There was a pause, in which Ashe waited almost eagerly for Balthier's next argument. This was becoming rather fun, like debating a point of policy with her ministers.

'Joaquin. It was_ your_ cousin who skewered me.'

Ashe hesitated a little over this one, some of her mirth leaving her as she remembered the injuries Balthier had sustained and the terror she had experienced when she thought her attempts to revive him would be for naught.

'That was Larsa's fault as much as mine, and I am being generous taking any responsibility for Joaquin at all, you were working for Larsa at the time.'

'You married me.' Balthier was drawing at straws here.

'And that is a punishment? I could have seen you swing from a gibbet and instead I raised you to the highest man in all Dalmasca.' Ashe almost laughed. If nothing else Balthier could be counted on for his ingratitude.

'Yes, that is precisely my point.' Balthier's voice had taken on a teasing, laughing intimacy, which strangely sent a jolt of, if not alarm, than sobriety through her.

She had become adept at reading the tone, the inflection, and the manner of Balthier's speech as those small tells gave more aware to his state of mind than his carefully considered words ever did.

Right now Ashe had the strangest feeling that Balthier was about to be honest with her and give expression to some form of genuine sentiment. He was always at his most fatuously playful, or cynically laconic, when he was trying to be honest about his feelings.

'You raised me up and now I live in terror that I might fail you.' He whispered in her ear, nuzzling the hood back with his chin and holding her immobile by the strength of his arm around her waist.

'I was happy in my pointless, selfish little existence, Ashe. Now, for your own inexplicable reasons, you have given me more than I ever expected to possess; two wondrous children and the love of the greatest Queen to ever grace the face of Ivalice. I have been set up to failure, for how can any man live up to that?'

Ashe could feel her cheeks burning, and tried, even as her heart hammered, even as she detected the hint of an apology (though she knew not what for) in his words and the overwhelming weight of truth in each syllable, to laugh it off.

'You are trying to divert me with flattery because you cannot win the argument. I know your games Pirate and shall not be fooled.'

Balthier did not laugh. His arm tightened imperceptibly around her waist and she felt him sigh and knew as he did so that he had performed yet another mercurial change in mood, from playful to deadly serious, upon her once more.

'No, Ashe. I have not been a very flattering or supportive partner to you of late and although I would like to claim otherwise I am like to be a bastard on and off in the future too. I have been one far too long to give the jig up now.'

Ashe was used to Balthier's sudden, tumultuous changes in temperament and was not overly fazed by them. She was given to sudden mood swings herself and knew that Balthier was a far more level headed person than she could ever hope to be (in fact she rather thought she had been a bad influence on him in regards the increasing frequency of his sulks; oft times their sulks had become complimentary, one to be angry when the other was morose).

'If I did not know better Balthier I would think you were planning either to run off with my maid or commit some manner of suicide. This sounds like a last confession.'

To her relief Balthier snorted back a ripple of derisive laughter in response to her gentle rebuff. His own response, dry and urbane as dust, reassured her that he was not falling into his increasingly habitual morose and sorrowful state.

'Ashe we would both be in our graves of old age if I was to make a full confession of my sins.'

'No doubt,' Ashe agreed peaceably, 'Yet any wife would be somewhat suspicious if her husband started singing her praises and making what appears to be a ham-fisted attempt at a pre-emptive apology.'

This time Balthier laughed out loud and the sunny sound momentarily brightened the outlook as their Chocobo plodded forward towards the entrance to the Ozmone Plains and freedom from the heavy banks of typhoon Rains that drove northwards towards Rabanastre.

'Ham-fisted pre-emptive apology? Ashe you wound me.'

'Always a possibility.' she agreed happily.

Soon they would reach the site of their first nights encampment and she would be able to stretch her legs and get off this damnable bird to walk on solid, dry ground.

'Well,' Balthier contrived to sound aggrieved, 'That is the last time I shall ever attempt an expression of honest love and appreciation for you, as clearly my efforts are not welcome.'

'I did not marry you for your honesty Balthier. Gods know I would be fool indeed to have done that.' She replied tartly, pleased to have come away the victor in this verbal skirmish.

'Dare I ask why you did marry me?' Humour tinged his words.

Both of them were now sitting up straighter in the saddle as the Rains slacked off on approaching the green veldt of the Ozmone Plains and the sun outlined the breaking black clouds overhead.

Ashe paused letting the anticipation grow; a smile glittering on her face as she turned her head towards the sun light spearing through the storm clouds.

'I married you for your…….' She purred provocatively, deliberately wriggling in the saddle so that she ground her hips against him causing Balthier to swallow back a little gasp half in pain and part in arousal.

'For my what?' He prompted when it became clear she was in no hurry to enlighten him.

Ashe snickered and again fidgeted in the saddle in such a way that had more in common with coquetry than the state craft that usually took up most of her life. She let her head tip back against his shoulder, exposing the arch of her neck and her face to the sun that burst from the clouds to bathe them both in warm, golden light.

'I married you for your….._sheep_.'

She delivered her punch line with a seductive roll of her tongue between her teeth, knowing he watched her every move. The bright blaze of delighted amusement in his dark eyes as her jest hit the mark told her that although he had predicted the joke he appreciated it all the same.

'I knew it all along.' He breathed against neck, tugging her falling hood from her head so that she could fully wallow in the surcease of the rain and bask in the sun. 'You are a ruthless, Gil-digging harridan, just as I always suspected.'

And somehow he managed to make that indictment of her character sound better than all the false flattery and earnest praise she had ever heard.

This was the reason she had married him. Not because he loved her (she had known love before, if only briefly) and not because he cared one whit for her status or her destiny, but because he was the only person who had ever seen her and known her for the woman she was, behind the crown.

He had found her to be a difficult, stubborn, oft times indecisive and high-strung woman with a vicious temper, and he'd still taken it upon himself to provoke, cajole, entice and infuriate her, for the sole reason that, when all was held in the balance, kingdom or no kingdom, he had valued her enough for her own lights to help her when she had had few others to look to for aid.

For that reason, for that one enduring saving grace (that his love hard won and not easily given was life long and constant even if it came with thorns) she had already forgiven him for his secret sin (whatever it was) that had led him to side with Al-Cid Margrace (and yes, she had seen the web of entrapment her friend had laid for her husband, though she knew not why or how) and manipulate her trust in him to bring them out here, en-route to Mount Bur-Omisace, to do what must be done.

But forgiveness was not the same as ignorance and nor would she forget, yet somehow she knew that Balthier knew this too, or else he would not be out here now, at her side, trying to redeem himself for a fault she had never intended to hold against him.

It had always been a game between them, from that first seduction to this moment now, and they had always been so very, very good at playing each other.


	24. Chapter 24

**Rabanastre; The Palace**

_A/N: Warning! Blood, gore, frustrated libidos and flying corpses abound!_

* * *

She hated blood. She hated the hot, copper and offal smell of blood; the stench of foul death.

Stepping back fastidiously she avoided the seep of thick crimson that dripped heavy as syrup over the stone steps from the sluggish fount in the sliced throat of the guardsman that had, but seconds earlier, rushed like a geyser.

There were specks of scarlet staining her robes. Blood rimmed the wet and stinking cuffs of her sleeves and the soles of her soft, flat shoes. There had been blood in Mount Bur-Omisace too.

She remembered how her own blood had be-spoiled her pristine neophytes robes. How the armoured Archadian dogs had ripped away the warm fabric. She remembered the foulness of their hot breath on her skin.

She remembered the rough, calloused harshness of their hands on her; how three of them had borne her to the ground, held her down, torn her robes away. She remembered how they had…..

But she would not think of such ugliness. She would not think of the fires and the screaming refugees, the children trampled under the feet of the metal clad Imperials who demanded the whereabouts of the renegades.

She would not recall the men who pawed the ground with their stamping feet and whose breath burned and scolded the cool, crisp mountain air; the men who cried out the name of the idolater Ashelia as they laid waste to all that was holy.

Instead she stepped over the body of the Rabanastran palace guardsman and wiped her blade upon her robes. Soon all the blood, both real and remembered, would be wiped clean away forever.

She had but to spill a little more blood and it would all be over. She would be called to Faram, welcomed as his true daughter and taken as his faithful handmaiden for all eternity.

All that she had endured would be rewarded and all that she had done, every heretic and traitor she had watched burn upon the stake, every woman left weeping on the road side begging for mortal salvation when they should have cared more for their immortal part, would be forgotten in eternal bliss.

She did not know her way about the palace, but it was not so very large compared to the grandeur of the Margrace palaces. Mishman had gifted to her a palace as a wooing token; it was larger than this one.

By the grace of her patron, Faram, she had found a place to hide within the very palace of her enemy. She had learned the rotation of the guards, the location of the nursery. She had bided her time until she was strong enough in body and faith to fulfil her righteous task.

Now each guard she crept up on, each throat that parted like silk beneath the run of her dagger brought her closer to the doors of the nursery where her enemy's spawn lay within their cradle of fleshly corruption.

Blood dripped, dark and slow, from her dagger, held demurely down against her side, as, with hands as red as rubies, she pushed open the door to the nursery.

With the nimble grace that used to fill her with such mortal pride before the Imperial soldiers had robbed her of her prettiness on the cold hard floor of the temple, heedless of her cries and pleading, she crept across the moon painted floor of the silent nursery and peered down into the cradle.

* * *

**Vadinsk; foothills of Mount Bur-Omisace**

Vadinsk, nestled in the foothills of the Kerwon mountains' within the diocese of the Gran Kiltias, was arguably as breathtakingly beautiful as any tiny hamlet Balthier had ever seen.

In the distant stillness of the pre-dawn dark, Vadinsk glittered with torchlight, pooling like a rippling lake in the valley of the mountains, inviting and exquisite in the inky, starless night.

Despite the loveliness of the view Balthier was far more preoccupied with how to feed, shelter and manage the seven thousand assorted souls, still enshrouded in the their mortal flesh, who had (for their own peculiar reasons) attached themselves to Ashe's train and followed her banner in the fashion of a true army of the people.

Incidentally, now that he had first hand experience of said armies of the common folk, Balthier was able to confirm his opinion that there was nothing more pointless as civilian armies. Al-Cid Margrace was indeed a fool of the highest order of merit (though, admittedly, Balthier had already known this) for espousing the virtues of such.

Their merry band of pilgrims had been on the march for some five days (they had taken a boat along the Soguht river boarding at Jahara thus avoiding being forced to pierce the solitude of Golmore Jungle) and almost from the moment Ashe had shown her face at the first village and smiled on the fisherman who presented her with a fresh caught fish, men, women and children had started streaming from their homes to follow the Dynast Queen on her march for peace.

Had Balthier been a different sort of person he would have been almost overcome by it all, the power that Ashe possessed to so captivate the minds and hearts of the people, and their faith in her.

Sadly (or not, really it depended on ones perspective) Balthier was neither overcome or entirely appreciative for their large, cumbersome train of followers who all expected to be fed, sheltered, and protected on this journey that no one had actually invited them to join.

He was thusly standing shin deep in a snow drift in the middle of the frigid pre-dawn air, scowling down on their makeshift encampment outside of Vadinsk, trying to formulate a plan of what to do with seven thousand farm labourers, housewives, schoolchildren and octogenarians and how he was to stop said (utterly militarily useless) army of the people from dying in their droves from starvation, hyperthermia or falling down the mountain when they embarked on their scaling of the heights of Mount Bur-Omisace.

Really, Balthier could not help thinking less than charitably, spontaneous acts of solidarity in the name of Ivalice wide peace was all well and good but would it have killed the bloody fools to pack decent provisions?

'Worse comes to the worse, I suppose we can load them all into catapults and fire them up the slopes.'

Balthier muttered to himself turning to look up at the torch lighted higher reaches of the mountain.

Mishman and his Ascendancy had erected barricades, caused controlled avalanches to make the mountain paths impassable, and turned the Kiltia temple and monasteries into a veritable impregnable, unreachable fortress. No one could reach the temple and no one could escape it.

Even the small purveema's that floated in orbit around the summit of the mountain had been rigged with booby-traps to send out magnetic pulses to knock approaching airship from the skies.

In the space of a few days Mount Bur Omisace was cut off from the rest of Ivalice, as unreachable as the very eyrie of Faram himself. Balthier, despite himself, was impressed by the speed and efficiency of Mishman's defences.

Had it not been for fear of what the damnable Rozzarian might be plotting up there in the frozen clouds enshrouding the summit, Balthier would have been content to let him and his followers rot all the way up there for all eternity.

As it was he was in half a mind to rig a few controlled avalanches himself to ensure the bastards could not come down even if they wished it and simply sit in wait for them to kill each other out of starvation and desperation.

Wisely Balthier had so far kept this opinion to himself. Advocating large scale murder (or assisting the fools in their bid for martyrdom, as he might preferably call it) was not really seemly when one was on a pilgrimage for peace.

Deciding he had better move lest frostbite take hold in his lower extremities, Balthier shouldered his Firestar MkII and took a stroll down the avenue of makeshift tents and clapboard hovels the pilgrims of peace had erected at the foot of the Kerwon mountain range.

Although it was difficult to tell, it being dark and no one having the time to perform a proper headcount, Balthier nevertheless thought that the numbers of pilgrims might have increased even more since nightfall.

Camp fires burned while carefully minded by those civilians on the watch at this time (Balthier, with little else to do while Ashe made herself a paragon of virtue and good, had taken it upon himself to bully, cajole and instruct the mish-mash of Ivalice gathered here into a semi organised gaggle; thus they now had a rota for night watch, cooking and laundry duties).

As he made his rounds, people, mostly Humes but certainly not exclusively so, looked up and murmured hushed greetings, some asking over the whereabouts and health of the _blessed Queen Ashelia._

After having exchanged pleasantries with the pilgrims for a time ('Her Highness is enjoying a _blessed _nights sleep at the moment, your concern is most appreciated thank you') Balthier excused himself and headed towards the slightly larger, grander, canopy tent that housed the 'generals' of this unusual campaign; Ashe, himself, and Marquis Ondore.

Balthier suspected, and had amused himself along the interminable journey by casting aspersions along the lines, that Ondore had not precisely honoured the exact wishes of Al-Cid Margrace in arriving so quickly to rendezvous with he and Ashe.

Surely Al-Cid had wanted them to walk like true pilgrims, not arrive in a luxury airship, some forty-eight hours after leaving Rabanastre?

Ondore had replied smartly that he lived on a purveema; if he had set off on foot he would have fallen thousands of feet into the ocean. Balthier had decided after that to gracefully say no more on the matter, though irking the elder statesman had done wonders for keeping his spirits lifted.

Pushing the tent flap back and entering the enclosure Balthier noted that Ashe was exactly where he had left her some time earlier asleep underneath a veritable mountain of furs and blankets ensconced on a truckle bed and looking like a little girl in her usual fugue of completely oblivious slumber.

As always Balthier was struck by how impossibly endearing the sight of Ashe sleeping was, before shaking his head to clear it of such thoughts entirely.

At the foldaway table, which took up most of the available space in the tent, Ondore leant heavily on his cane and pushed tiny model battalions about, on the three dimensional construct of the mountain range arrayed upon the table-top, with one dissolute finger.

Balthier strolled over and cast an appraising look over the Marquis' battle plans. Absently he picked up a small statuette of a Seeq mounted on the back of a Chocobo and raised his eyebrow inquisitively towards the older man.

'You _are_ aware we have no cavalry?'

Marquis Ondore lifted tired eyes to meet his sardonic regard, 'It is not a literal representation. We do not have the figurines cast for a battalion of six year old Bangaa with slingshots or a vanguard of frail washerwomen from Dorstonis.'

Balthier smirked, replacing the silver cast statuette on the table, 'Ah, but you forget, a true heart and a just cause is worth ten thousand men at arms.'

Balthier could not resist quoting Ashe's words of earlier that very day when she had addressed the adoring crowds of well meaning pilgrims who followed her with enraptured devotion.

He had always known that Ashe had a gift for oration and a knack for play acting but in the last five days she had excelled herself. No matter how cold she was, how tired or anxious, she maintained a constant façade of regal command as impenetrable as Mount Bur-Omisace itself.

Had he not known better he might actually have given credence to the Ascendancy's slander that Ashe was trying to cast herself in the role of goddess among men. She was half way to deification in the eyes of the people already.

Ondore's expression did not even flicker, he was not even tempted to roll his eyes, but Balthier suspected that the older man's guarded, steady, gaze grew just slightly more _pointed._

'My niece has a gift for rhetoric, much like Al-Cid.' He stated with acerbic wit.

'Hmm, thankfully Ashe is prepared to back her words with actions.' Balthier drawled, smoothly evading Ondore's verbal hook.

'I confess myself surprised that you chose to advocate so eloquently in favour of the former Archduke's proposal. I had thought you and I had similar views about the man's political leanings.'

Ondore probed further, listlessly removing from the table a line of pike wielding Hume figurines that were just as likely to represent a brigade of carpenters and artificers as they did trained soldiers.

'Did you now, whatever gave you that idea?' Balthier raised his eyebrows curiously, he was not happy with being seen as Al-Cid's advocate but he did garner some pleasure from wrong-footing the Marquis.

'I have long advocated amicable surrender to all out war in most of my past skirmishes.' Balthier added ironically.

This was certainly a sincere statement. He had never seen the shame in running away in the face of insurmountable odds (at least until he had met Ashe, then he seemed to be often afflicted with a fever to perform foolhardy acts of pointless, life threatening heroism).

Balthier gathered up a collection of Bangaa archers and repositioned them experimentally near the entrance to Golmore, idly visualising a Viera Wood Warder squadron leaving the safety of Golmore to take an active interest in the rest of Ivalice. It was fantasy, of course, but an entertaining one.

'It is not so much the proposal, though such idealism does not seem quite a match to your character, Balthier, as it is surprise that you would defend the principles of a man you appear to detest.'

Ondore pushed forward a motley assortment of silver siege engines and heavy artillery towards Balthier's collection of renegade Viera warriors, essentially routing his little band of intrepid archers.

'I do not have to like a man to agree with him, which is just as well for I should be in a constant state of enmity with most of my fellow man, if I held to such high standards.'

Frowning slightly (for he had not seen the pocket of artillery lurking behind a contour of the undulating miniature recreation of the local environment that had destroyed his battalion) Balthier reformed his archers, bolstering their number with a collection of Seeq Cavalry and some Hume foot soldiers taken from the east flank, to seize Ondore's artillery in a classic pincer movement.

'Interesting,' Ondore mused, considering the game board they played upon as a whole and scrutinised the big picture with the jaundiced eye of long experience playing the game of Ivalic politics.

'I had long supposed that you were, in fact, in open opposition to almost everyone else in Ivalice, pirate. You have a gift for making enemies.'

Balthier quirked an eyebrow feeling a smirk play over his lips, 'I am a man of endless patience and goodwill to my fellows, Marquis, that they do not acknowledge that I am invariably right and superior in all ways is a source of great regret to me.'

'The bane and complaint of many a great man and tyrant, I wager.'

Ondore did not smile and his voice and expression did not suggest any great amusement, but Balthier, who might possible resemble in demeanour and countenance Halim Ondore should he live to reach the ripe age of sixty-three, detected the bone dry amusement in the other man's cool words.

The two men maintained a companionable silence. Balthier watching with curious patience as Ondore re-set the table with the lines of his army. The only sound was the scuffle of metal pieces across the map, Ashe's snuffling sleepy breathing and the whistle of the icy wind ruffling the tent carapace.

As Balthier studied the other man Ondore began to arrange the silver figurines, casts of catapults and siege engines, cavalry and foot soldiers, within the narrow gulley of the Silverfloe fjord, gathering them all higgledy-piggledy in the narrow strip of land between the high faced mountains.

Balthier felt his brows itch together. The manoeuvre was pure folly, any opposing force would massacre an army bottlenecked in such a precarious and poorly defensible position. Gods, a well placed avalanche would wipe out the entire force without the enemy needing to fire a single shot.

Ondore, an experienced tactician, would surely know this……unless……..

Balthier looked up from the table game board to see Ondore coolly watching him, leaning upon his amber topped cane, steady gaze unwavering and inscrutable.

_Hmmm, sly old codger, is he thinking what I think he is? Yet even if he is, the logistics of such a thing would be nigh impossible to bring about…surely?_

'Tis a pity we do not have a god on our side, hmm?' Balthier suggested slyly, 'Or perhaps it is to our advantage that Mishman's god seems content to take a back seat in this venture, lest we have to contend with rockslides, blizzards and mountain cave- ins.'

'It has always been my belief that the gods help those who help themselves. The mountains can be treacherous at this time of year. The top layer of snow and ice thaws, and is given to slip; avalanches are common.' Ondore tapped his cane, in time with the ripples of the wind against the tent lining, against the floor.

Balthier met Ondore's solid gaze with his own, unflinching, regard. Both men studied each other with a calm, simple accord.

'Common perhaps, but are they convenient?' Balthier finally broke the silence that had gathered.

Ondore shrugged his shoulders in a gesture too sanguine and refined for the term. He regarded the table top battle ground as he tapped his fingers on the top of his cane.

'I pray daily for the kindly intervention of the gods and those who help themselves to help others.' Ondore replied prosaically.

Balthier tugged meditatively on his shirt sleeve, 'Dispatches from Larsa and Basch indicate they should be here by tomorrow eve or early the next morning. Larsa is heading his own army of civilians numbering some five thousand. The men from Landis are said to be bringing explosives and digging equipment to help clear the mountain paths.'

Balthier suspected that Ondore already knew this, but the man nodded anyway. 'Ascending the slopes is only half the battle. We must entice the enemy from the summit.'

……_.and down into the silverfloe, perhaps?_

But Balthier did not give voice to this dry suggestion. He was too well versed in these games to make the mistake of giving speech to what both he and Ondore were planning without once admitting openly to planning anything at all.

* * *

**Rabanastre; the nursery**

She had always adored children. Their very helplessness, the purity of their dependency, spoke to her of godliness. A baby's dependence on its mother was the ultimate embodiment of how Humes should be within the cradle of their gods love. Helpless, dependent, protected and nurtured.

The barrier of magick around the cradle was easily dispelled by a former neophyte priestess of Kiltia. As the magick guarding the sleeping infants fell she leaned forward, the sheet of her long, tangled, dark hair, tumbling into the white cotton lined cradle.

One of the tiny babes opened their eyes. Smoky blue orbs glittered in the moonlight and rosebud mouth puckered in an expression of open trust and curiosity. She reached down and lifted the infant from the cradle.

The baby released a startled wail, more surprise at the change in air pressure, the release from the bindings of cradle and magick, than distress. She held the babe up to the light, her dagger held, point downward in her hand and blade flat against the child's spine.

She wanted to look more closely at the progeny of Hume sin.

Peeling away the swaddling wraps she discovered that she held the idolaters son within her own two hands; the blood from her hands staining his chubby, flawless white flesh. So soft, so sweet, it almost cried out to be pierced, sundered, split apart like ripe fruit.

Growing cold with his wrap removed and thrust under the cold spotlight of the filtered moon shadow, the boy child began to cry in earnest. She took him into her arms instinctively cooing for the babe.

Presently the boy quieted, though his working mouth, sucking on empty air, suggested he longed to sup at the teat of his mother's evil, to lap upon the milk of her pride and lust and avarice.

Remembering the evil intrinsic within the heart of this tiny infant, remembering her mission and her calling, she tightened her grip on the dagger as she lowered the babe back into the cradle.

Two downward thrusts, one for each, should pierce their hearts and end the scourge of the Dynast line once and for all.

She raised the dagger, winking sticky black-red and metallic silver in the cold, impartial moonlight. In the cradle both babies gazed up at her, eyes bright and welled with light.

The dagger came down.

* * *

**Vadinsk; foothills of Mount Bur-Omisace**

Dawn came and went and presently Ashe decided to wake up.

Balthier, who had caught an hours sleep, dozing with his back propped up against one of the tent poles, was in the process of dilatorily picking at a breakfast of dried fruit, seeds and sugar crackers, washing down the horrible assortment with a mug of small ale.

'Pleasant dreams Princess?'

He drew Ashe's attentions when it became clear that she was disorientated and confused by her surroundings.

'Balthier,' kicking her way out of the thick swath of bedding she came to rest beside him, a fur clutched tightly around her shoulders. 'By the gods, are you actually eating?'

They both looked down at the half eaten dried fruit and grain on his plate. His eating habits were, for some reason that he did not fully understand, a source of high amusement to Ashe.

She seemed to be of the belief that he did not eat, which was of course a complete fallacy, although admittedly he had never had what one might call a hearty appetite (in fact Fran had once opined that had it not been for she reminding him to partake of sustenance he might have starved to death through sheer absent-mindedness long ago).

'Contrary to popular opinion, I do still require food to live; though I remain doubtful that_ this_,' he gestured to the miserable scraps on his discarded plate, 'constitutes food.'

'If you don't want it, I'll eat it.' Ashe said snatching up the plate without a by-your-leave. He did not react, well used to Ashe's food stealing tendency.

She had stolen his rations straight from his hands almost from the first day of their trek to Raithwall's tomb, even though, at the time, she had not seen fit to speak a civil word to him.

Much like her intensive sleeping rituals, Ashe's ravenous appetite was simply something he had become affectionately accustomed to.

Engaged in the all-consuming task of breaking her fast, Ashe ignored him and any attempts to engage in conversation, instead she stretched out her legs before her, draping them over his own lap as she picked at morsels from his plate.

Balthier resisted the temptation to push her legs off him (not because he objected to Ashe draping herself all over him as if he was a custom built piece of furniture) but because, alas, he was suffering from that unfortunate affliction that a man who has not had opportunity to _be with _his wife (or, in fact any woman, not that he would look elsewhere…..he was not and never had been _that_ faithless) in many, many months inevitably falls prey too.

_Damned libido._

It did not seem fair to him either, as he set his gaze to look blankly at the white canvas of the tents inner lining and not at the slow, languorous way Ashe licked crumbs from her fingers or the expanse of her pretty thighs stretched across him, that Ashe still remained lovely and shapely (more so for the slight rounded curve to her belly that she had not lost from the pregnancy and which actually added to her appeal, he had never found overly thin woman attractive) even though she was barely two weeks past giving birth to twins.

Balthier was a man who had spent his formative adult years indulging in instant gratification. Whenever he ever wanted a woman he had known that he could have her, with a little deliberation and patience. When he had wanted some material thing he either stole it or purchased it with the Gil from other stolen goods and when he wanted to go somewhere he simply hopped aboard the Strahl and went there.

Now here he was, libido held in check through an act of self-discipline that was more a chore than he liked to admit, with the object of his desire laid out across him and spending a indecent amount of time sucking on a piece of dried fruit caught between her full lips in what, to his engorged flesh and inflamed mind, seemed to be a flagrant invitation that they both knew he could not accept.

_Bloody labour recovery time, would it have really been too much for her to be bloated and unappealing during that time? Six weeks is too long. I need a distraction._

Even as the impatient thought flittered through his mind the sound of screams and shouts penetrated the quiet peace of the moment. With an enthusiasm that bordered on desperation Balthier pushed Ashe off him and leapt to his feet before rushing out of the tent.

The sight that accosted him did wonders for dispelling his frustrated libido and Balthier was almost tempted to send up a thankful prayer to Faram for his timely distraction (of course, most likely, the God, should he truly exist, would likely take this as an invitation to strike Balthier with impotence as a punishment for his previously affirmed atheism).

A large crowd of dithering, panicking pilgrims had gathered around the disgusting, rather flat and splattered corpse in Kiltia robes that rolled, as Balthier watched, from the canvas tent cover of one of the pilgrims' hovels and landed with a decisively loose limbed thud onto the icy ground.

Balthier, rolling his sleeves up, walked over to prod the corpse with his foot, rolling the unfortunate deceased personage over onto his back so as to possibly make some form of identification.

The concave state of the man's face quickly put paid to that idea. Behind Balthier one of the curious bystanders turned away and began vomiting. Balthier sighed (bloody civilians) and hunkered down to examine the mysteriously arrived cadaver.

'Where did this come from?' Ashe spoke up behind him, as Balthier reached out to pull the man's soiled robes from his person. It was one of the pilgrims who stepped forward and answered.

'He fell, your Highness, come right out of the sky and landed on the tent. D'you think he fell off the mountain? He's wearing Kiltia robes.'

As the murmurs rose from the gathered onlookers, people excitedly suggesting that either a Rozzarian/Kiltia invasion force was at this moment rampaging down the mountain to attack them all, or else the Bur Omisace kiltia most likely being held hostage, had managed to escape, Marquis Ondore stepped forward and stood, cane in hand, before the corpse.

Ashe stepped forward and peered over Balthier's shoulder at the body. 'Did he fall, is that what killed him?'

Balthier felt a humourless smirk quirked his lips as he flipped over the loose, brownish stained flap of the man's robes he had previously investigated, with a macabre flourish.

'Not unless the man was incubating maggots while alive, Highness,' he replied cheerfully, looking down on the suppurating mass of tiny, white fleshy grubs that infested the dark, stinking cavity in the man's abdomen.

Ashe did not flinch as her eyes took in the injury and the body's state of decomposition. Death was nothing new to her, and she had seen her fair share of corpses in various stages of decay.

'It is likely this man died days ago, when the Rozzarians took the temple.' Ondore stated, in a voice loud enough to carry to the back of the crowd.

This was a man who understood the power of turning anything and everything into an opportunity to further ones political ends, even when corpses started raining from the sky.

'We must assume that the Ascendancy has killed the Bur Omisace kiltia and have decided to fling the bodies from the summit, either in warning, or as a message to those who oppose them.'

'More efficient to feed them to the wolves,' Balthier murmured under his breath and Ashe managed to kick him without anyone else noticing as she turned to the crowds and raised her voice solemnly.

'We must give this poor man a decent burial. Please gather the necessary equipment so that we may lay him to rest at once. Even dead no man or woman deserves such treatment.'

* * *

**Rabanastre; the nursery**

The dagger came down.

Sweeping through empty air to fall, harmlessly, to her side, her fingers slicked in blood and sweat could barely hold the hilt. She looked down on the occupants of the cradle with helpless, silent anger. She had hesitated.

She had looked upon these infants, spawn of the evil corruption invading the souls of men, and she had hesitated in her duty.

She believed in her mission. She believed that Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca and her issue must be swept from the face of Ivalice. She believed that Hume-kind had grown distant from their gods, placing their faith in science and the rule of man, forsaking the divine and the holy.

She believed, yet she could not will her arm to raise the blade once more.

She remembered and in that memory her hesitancy grew. She remembered, bloody and broken inside, where no woman should ever be broken, staggering into the antechamber of the Gran Kiltias in time to see the monster Judge Magister addressing the Dalmascan Princess.

She remembered the body of Anastasis left abandoned, ignored, forgotten, on the floor of his chamber. She remembered the blood and the Mist and the curses as the blood soaked Princess whose presence on the sacred mountain had caused all this pain and death, had led the charge against the Judge.

She had watched, slumped against a pillar in the shadows, in too much pain to make a sound, let alone run away, as the Princess and her future paramour, his long eared monstrosity, the scarred man and the two wild-eyed children, had torn the Judge in armour limb from bloody limb.

She still remembered the grunts and shouts and muffled curses, the animalist snarls and growls as the six had closed in on the one and rent the air with his blood. She remembered how the bad blood had fallen to spread across the ground with the good, indivisible the one from the other.

They had hacked him to pieces, his armour flaying from his science maligned body like steely skin. She remembered the cacophony of bullets and magick and the singing of sharpened blades through the once tranquil silence of the temple.

Most of all she had remembered the sight of Anastasis, eyes unnaturally open, unable to dream his dreams any longer, lying broken and discarded in his own sanctum.

That was the moment she had known that she must rid Ivalice of such evil, wanton cruelty. She must rid Ivalice of all those who would destroy and profane the most revered and holy of places for their own ends.

Gritting her teeth in the present she found her resolve once more. Too much good blood had been shed, now she must wash away the sin with the spilling of bad blood. Or the spilling of blood born of sin and evil before it had the time to mature in its own corruption.

She must do this for her sisters and brothers Hume. She must do this for all the faithful of Faram.

She raised the dagger, but a sound from behind her, the softest shuffle of tiny feet moving swiftly across the floor of the nursery, she turned from the cradle, dagger raised in defence.

She realised, belatedly, in the momentarily illumination of moonlight reflection along the blade of a dagger not her own, that she had fallen into the folly of many other of her race; she had forgotten that Faram did not make Hume-kind alone.

'You're not supposed to be here, Kupo!'

In the blinking of an eye the knife sliced across her jugular and she fell to the floor more in shock than pain.

There was heat and the hated stench of hot copper drowning her senses as she fell in a ready pool of dark hair and crimson blood, at the foot of the cradle. Her own dagger fell limply from her numbed fingers.

Distantly as she wordlessly, soundlessly, opened and closed her mouth on gouts of blood, she heard the sound of children crying.

'Hush, little ones, hush now; the nasty lady won't be bothering you again, my dearies. Your father hired me to mind you and I have. Nanny Sorbet will take good care of you, sweetlings.'

She tried to speak, she tried to say that she was not a 'nasty lady' that she did only what was right. That she wanted only to restore her brethren to the bliss of pure faith. She did not speak; she was no longer able to.

She was growing cold and her vision was fading. Would this be her last sight of the mortal world, blood and more blood spreading across the floor?

She found herself growing sad. She realised that her legacy, her life for the last five years, since that horrible day in Bur Omisace, the day her faith in the gods was tainted irrevocably by the violence of Ivalice's warring powers, had ever after been one of blood and death and pain.

For the first time in five years, since the day the light went out of her soul, she wished for something good to look on before she died.

'I know sweetlings, let's put on your mobile, shall we? Your father is a clever man, isn't he, such a lovely toy.'

Suddenly the fading world of mortality that she had believed herself so ready to depart erupted into dancing light. Her heart leapt even as it shuddered in its last palpitation.

Stars danced and swirled above her head, playing along the walls and the ceiling, transforming the gathering darkness into twinkling light and wonder.

She died with the stars dancing upon her and her bad blood spreading in a creeping pool away from her. Bad blood for good; her mission had been completed.

* * *

**Vadinsk; foothills of Mount Bur-Omisace**

Dusk was drawing in and the scouts had reported that the Landissian's were scant few miles from their encampment.

Taking a break from grave digging duties (their breakfast corpse had been joined by a steady fall of corpses ejected from the mountain summit as the day progressed) Balthier considered how nice it would be to see Fran again. He would also enjoy handing over the shovel to Basch (who was more suited to burial duty).

Abandoning the icy ground and shallow dug graves Balthier joined Ashe and Ondore who had finished mouthing empty platitudes commiserating the passing of men and women they had only ever known as lifeless corpses and were now engaged in heated discussion.

As he approached an angry Ashe strode away from her uncle, her rage rising like a heat haze from her body. She spun on her heel and, heedless of the ready audience always congregating around her Majesty, she shouted back to her uncle.

'As soon as the Landissians arrive, as soon as the paths are cleared, we march on the mountain. If Mishman wants a war he shall have one.'

Balthier did not attempt to forestall Ashe as she pushed into the tent and disappeared inside. Instead he met Ondore's eyes from across the encampment. The older man nodded his head once and Balthier felt his own quick nod of affirmative.

Satisfied that a silent pact had been formed Ondore turned on his heel, cane clicking across the icy, uneven ground, and he strolled away into the purple dusk.

Balthier let his eyes rove over the peaks and crags of the mountains towards Mount Bur Omisace's obscured summit.

_The gods help those who help themselves. _

With a quick tug on his coat sleeves Balthier went to retrieve his rifle and left the camp, headed for the lower slopes of the mountain that were still assailable in search of his own, _convenient_, divine inspiration.

He had, after all, always been terribly good at helping himself.

* * *

_A/N: Next up Larsa takes up arms against a sea of troubles and in opposing ends them, but here's the rub, will his true love betray him at the moment of his greatest satisfaction? _


	25. Chapter 25

**Rabanastre; The Palace**

_A/N: My new tradition of switching POV continues with this chapter; so let's all put our hands together and give a warm welcome to Emperor Larsa.F.Solidor_

_P.S: 103 reviews!….falls on the floor in shock and gratitude and picks self up to say a very heart felt thank you to everyone reading, reviewing, leaving comments, humorous reflections and in some cases even inspiring a few ideas…….I'll be sad to see this story finish (four chapters including this one left) because I've enjoyed hearing from you all. ;)_

* * *

'Larsa, hey, Larsa.' 

Larsa stopped walking towards the main plaza to rendezvous with his travelling party and turned to face Vaan (for no one else would call out to him in such a way).

'Vaan I had thought you were to accompany Al-Cid?' Larsa queried when Vaan. In travelling leathers and light armour Vaan was still as agile as a boy. He skidded to a halt in front of Larsa and grinned in his easy way. 

'Yeah, but it's not like they can go without me. Anyway I wanted to talk to you.' Vaan rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. Larsa noted the gesture and translated the body language to mean that Vaan wanted to speak of something serious. 

'Oh?' 

Larsa liked Vaan. Ashe's Captain was as far a cry from the usual sort of person Larsa dealt with on a daily basis to be a genuine breath of fresh air. Vaan was as a man without pretensions with a compassionate and courageous soul. Though Larsa had had little recourse to converse with Vaan at length since ascending to the seat of Empire, he felt he knew Vaan from Penelo's recollections.

For this reason and against his natural inclination, Larsa thought that he might, possibly, hate Vaan; Vaan who was a part of Penelo's life, woven into the very fabric of her existence from her infancy, in a way that Larsa could never be. 

Jealousy was an ugly emotion and Larsa would rid himself of it, but alas, the simple expedient of applying logic and reason to his feelings did nothing to abate them. 

Larsa, who had been lying with facial expression, tone and manner of speech since he was ten years old; the action of adapting his habits, curtailing his opinions, and temporising his beliefs to suit his audience being as natural to him as breathing, gave no sign of his increasing irritation with Vaan as the older man took an interminable amount of time (it seemed to Larsa) to come to the point.

'Yeah, see, Penelo asked me to help her with something, but that was before Ashe told me to go with Al-Cid and she decided to go with you…..so…' 

_Help? Penelo is in trouble? She needs help, but with what? Why would she not ask me? When, for that matter, did she have time to speak with Vaan? She has been with me in Archades for months._

These envy saturated thoughts shot through Larsa's brain faster than he could really register the irrational surge of hurt and anger that once again Vaan the childhood friend possessed knowledge of Penelo deeper and greater than Larsa's own. Then, with a deliberateness born of long practice, Larsa uprooted his thoughts and returned them to a more balanced channel of inquiry. 

_Penelo is entitled to confide in whomsoever she pleases. She can request aid (or fail to request aid) from whomsoever she wishes. You do not own her Larsa. Penelo owes you no fealty or special deference. Repeat after me, Penelo is a free woman, you do not own her. This jealousy is a sign of your immaturity._

'Hey, Larsa, you listening?' 

Vaan was staring at him with his wide, guileless sky blue eyes. Larsa could feel himself beginning to flush as he realised that he had completely failed to pay due attention to Vaan. Far worse than the sheer rudeness of his inattentiveness (at least to his envy eroded cognitive functions) it was _Vaan,_ of all people, had been the one to catch him in a moment of vacancy. 

'Ah, Vaan, forgive me. What was it you were saying?' 

Sometimes, often in fact, Larsa wished he was twelve years old again. 

Yes, his adored older brother had become (quite unexpectedly from Larsa's point of view but this, he had come to realise with the curse of hindsight, was due to his naivety) a patricidal megalomaniac and his worshipped father had been dead, but at least in those days he had known what to do about it. 

It was something of a damning indictment to ones social skills when a man of seventeen found it easier to engineer international peace than have a conversation with the object of his affections treasured childhood friend. 

'Uh, well, see, Penelo wanted my help with something but she never said what she wanted me to do.' 

Vaan reiterated. Larsa nodded with what he hoped was an encouraging expression on his face, even though he was conscious of the fact that he really should have been outside ready to march in procession out of the city gates, some five minutes ago. 

Larsa was, he thought it was fair to say given the evidence of his character, a fairly lenient and patient person, but he could not abide lateness. He was even less sanguine when it was his own lack of punctuality in question. 

'So anyway I thought about what she told me and some other stuff and I figured out a way to help her.' 

Vaan grinned finishing off what he had to say and leaving Larsa just as in the dark over exactly what he was referring to as he had been before Vaan had opened his mouth.

Vaan's ability to obscure even the simplest of utterances with a lack of clarity was something of a talent in Larsa's opinion. 

Certainly had Vaan possessed one iota of ambition in his being, he could have made an impressively devious politician. Larsa would have found a means to enter him into the Senate; it would have been a far greater revenge than Vayne's attempt to have the senator's imprisoned. 

'Here, give this to Penelo once you get to Mount Bur-Omisace, she'll know what to do with it.' 

Larsa looked down to see, to his bafflement, that Vaan was proffering an un-ripened Star Fruit with all the solemnity of a man bestowing the meaning of life and eternal youth. 

Larsa liked to think he had a nicely developed sense of humour. Becoming Emperor at twelve to a defeated Empire and heir to the most hated family in Ivalice had somewhat demanded a sense of humour as emotional shielding, but alas, he was not able to conceive of the punch-line to this jest, if it in fact was one. 

'You would like me to give Penelo this Star fruit?' Larsa thought he should seek clarification. It was conceivable, though admittedly unlikely, that he had misinterpreted Vaan's intent.

'Yeah,' Vaan beamed at him. 

Truly, the former pickpocket and sky pirate was inscrutable. Zaagabaath with his helmet visor down was easier to discern and comprehend than Vaan. 

'May I ask as to why?' Larsa queried politely. He was still patiently waiting for the punch-line. 

'No-oo,' Vaan drawled meditatively, 'I think it will work better if you just, y'know, keep it safe for her and then give it to her when it's ripe and she can tell you about it. Yeah, that's how you should do it.' He nodded, smiling his happy, inexplicable grin. 

For a brief moment Larsa wondered, somewhat irreverently, if Faram himself had smiled like that, when he had created Ivalice and the first Hume. 

'So I am to understand that you wish me to transport this unripe Star Fruit all the way to Mount Bur-Omisace, without knowing its significance, so that I may present it to Penelo, once ripe, on the slopes of Mount Bur-Omisace and this fruit will, in some way, help her in some matter I know nothing about?' 

'Yeah, that about covers it,' Vaan nodded cheerfully, either oblivious or simply feigning ignorance towards Larsa's slightly strained credulity and ever so slightly acerbic questioning. 

Larsa momentarily battled with the (somewhat childish) desire to remind Vaan that he was head of state of an Empire commanding some fifteen million people and therefore demand the incomprehensible Rabanstran before him to explain himself. 

Larsa swiftly suppressed the desire; he would sooner erode a mountain by digging with a teaspoon than extract sense from Vaan, and smiled as sweetly as he could while accepting the proffered the fruit. 

'If it will assist Penelo I shall be happy to do it.' 

Vaan clapped him on the shoulder (somewhat painfully) and grinned even wider. 'Great. I knew you'd help out Larsa.' 

Then giving him a little salute in the Dalmascan style Vaan turned on his heels and ran off the way he came (which was the wrong way, incidentally). Larsa looked down on the pointed fruit in his hand, shook his head, and popped the fruit into the pocket of his frock coat.

Turning to join the royal party on their way out of the city Larsa suspected that the greatest mystery in all Ivalice, and one that would never be solved, was whether or not Captain Vaan was in possession of a subtle form of genius or merely an ingenious form of stupidity?

* * *

**Somewhere quite near Mount Bur-Omisace**

Penelo had no idea where they were. 

It was something of an embarrassment to her that she had once passed herself off as a sky pirate navigator, when in fact she did not know north from south or, sometimes, her left from her right.

All she knew was that they had been walking for days. 

They had left Archades with some five hundred people in Larsa's train and gradually, as they headed south (she thought) and travelled through parts of Archadian she had never known existed, staying in towns and rural hamlets where the people were friendly and welcoming and acted like ordinary people and not like Archadians at all, people had started to follow Larsa in huge numbers. 

Penelo had been right there, right at his side, when Larsa came face to face with the 'real people' who lived in his Empire and it was a moment she would treasure. 

They came out of their towns to stare, as proud as a raven haired prince, Larsa had politely requested some food and provisions from the town mayor of first one town and then another, complimented the citizens on a lovely town (and somehow he always said it in a slightly different way from the last town so that the compliment never lost its sincerity) and they found that when they left, Larsa having explained where they were going and why in simple, polite terms, the people of that town followed along. 

For Larsa Penelo thought that this out-pouring of support came as a shock, after all only two and bit years ago his people had been trying to assassinate him. Now he did not really know how to react to the townspeople, though he was never less than polite.

For her part Penelo was delighted; she was so happy that Larsa could meet the people who actually appreciated him and all he had done to change Archadia for the better. 

The farmers and the weavers and the traders and the housewives told tales of how glad they were that the Empire was no longer at constant war with everyone, that they would not have to serve in mandatory conscription to the Imperial army, that their sons would never have to take up arms against their fellow Hume.

Trapped in the ruby towers of Archades all Larsa ever heard was the mealy mouthed complaints of the rich and selfish. 

Still it seemed to Penelo that Larsa was more at ease with the Gil-grabbing gentry than with the normal people so, because she knew that Larsa would want to give his thanks and gratitude and because Penelo had always enjoyed talking to people, she went amongst the townsfolk for him passing on the Emperor's heart-felt thanks. 

It was while she was running up and down the long train of wagons and farm labourers who marched as proud as soldiers with makeshift banners singing lewd songs and laughing when she danced along, that Penelo was stopped by an unwelcome but familiar duo.

'Aight Empress, laughing it up with the common people?' 

Penelo had wheeled around only to find herself bracketed in on both sides by the Streetear siblings, Jules and Gerty. Each Archadian caught up one of her arms, lacing theirs through hers and basically holding her captive while smiling like old friends.

'What are you doing here?' she demanded stamping on Jules foot and wriggling to get out from their grip. 

'What's it look like?' Jules muttered an oath as she crunched his foot under her walking boot and let her go. Gerty had already done so and so Penelo did not stamp on her foot. 

'Are you spying on me?' Penelo could not imagine, even for a moment, that Jules the Streetear cared one bit for Rozzaria, or the Gran kilties or, really, anyone but Jules the Streetear. 

Jules grinned at her and she noticed that two of his teeth near the back of the bottom row were missing, 'Nah, me and Gert are 'ere to show our solidarity wit' the downtrodden masses, don't yer know.' 

'Why, are they _paying_ you?' 

Penelo was not at all thrilled to see them, especially now she knew exactly what they wanted to do with the Senate, and especially when Larsa was walking only sixty yards ahead of them. 

She didn't know what scared her more that Larsa should know that she plotted with the Streetears or the thought that Jules might amble over and introduce himself to the Emperor. 

'Snarky today ain't we, Empress, I thought we were friends?' Jules leered at her, Penelo decided to ignore him. 

'You still haven't answered my question.' She finally spoke when neither Streetear showed any sign of either saying anything or going away.

'We're 'ere to march for peace, just like yer.' Jules insisted, 'Yer won't find a man more keen on peace than me. Only the other day I was sayin' t' Gert, wouldn't it be nice to go walk hundreds of miles for no sensible reason to freeze me nuts off in the snow savin' some stuck up, some bunch of poncy religious geezers from….' 

Gerty reached behind Penelo, who was still sandwiched between the two, to backhand her brother around the back of his head. 

'Shut up yer daft bugger.' she snapped. 

Penelo bit the inside of her mouth and refused to find anything even a little bit funny about what Jules had said. 

'We 'eard that yer were with 'is Lordship, so's we thought we'd take a little walkin' 'oliday so's we could talk t'yer, miss.' Gerty explained, glaring at her brother. 

'Talk about what?' 

Penelo asked cautiously as their threesome was overtaken by some rambunctious young men who ran up the lines singing a very naughty song about a Numou and a drunken sailor. Penelo wanted to smile, they reminded her of Vaan and it was nice to see that not all Archadians were sarcastic Streetears, armour plated killers, insane Emperors or cynical sky pirates. 

'I dunno, what shall we talk about?' Jules asked with exaggerated innocence pressing one figure to his lips in a parody of someone in deep thought, 'The weather? The price of cabbage? Getting Dr Ned on the Senate?' 

This time it wasn't Gerty who struck him around the head but Penelo herself, hard enough to sting her hand. Gerty looked impressed, Jules glowered.

'Oi, that sodding hurt.' 

'Yer got what was coming t'yer, yer rude git.' his sister shot back and Penelo nodded vigorously in agreement. Gerty turned to Penelo.

'See it's like this miss. In three weeks time the Senate is 'aving a meeting to fill the vacancy on the council, an' it's really a matter of then or never to get Dr Ned in the Senate.' 

'With the support of a hundred voting age Archadians,' Penelo said quietly, 'I know all about the law. The one that says anyone can be a senator if they have the backing of one hundred Archadians and can get into the Chamber.' 

'Well, lar-de-da, the Empress done her 'omework.' Jules rolled his eyes, still upset about the head slap. Both Penelo and Gerty ignored him. 

'Right,' Gerty smiled encouragingly, 'but yer see miss, it's the getting' int' the Senate Chamber that's the 'ard part, elseways every man an' 'is dog would be a Senator.' 

'Dog'd be better than the useless fat arses we got now.' Jules grumbled, still being ignored by Penelo and his sister. 

'What we need miss is the Master Chop; it opens all the doors in the Senate tower an' with that we'd 'ave no trouble getting' Ned into the Senate an' finally getting the Vulgar's their due.' 

_Master Chop? _

Something rang a bell in Penelo's mind; something about a Master Chop and who possessed it. She searched her memory diligently for the answers.

'_What's that?' _

_Penelo asked curiously one afternoon while taking tea and scones with Larsa on the veranda of his summer residence. Gingerly she picked up the smooth, white, mother-of –pearl inlaid ash wood block, no larger than her hand that had slipped from Larsa's pocket onto the table. _

'_Oh, excuse me, how clumsy of me.'_

_Larsa had looked a little embarrassed that the object had slipped from the chain attached to a collection of keys that had clattered from his over-laden pocket when he had removed his jacket to drape it over his chair._

'_It is nothing too interesting, I'm afraid, it is part of the paraphernalia of state: the Master Chop.' _

'_Oh,' Penelo examined the sliver of wood that was etched with magickal sigils, the thrum of magick dancing over her fingers as the mother-of-pearl gilt shimmered in the sunlight. 'What does it do?' _

_Larsa had smiled as he leaned over the table and whispered to her conspiratorially, 'It opens the doors to the Empire; every locked door, vault, and safe in Archades. Technically we are both committing treason even discussing it.' _

_He had smiled to soften his words as Penelo had swiftly handed the item back to him as if it had burned her. _

In the present, walking along a dusty road, the massive purple shadow of the distant Kerwon mountains' hazy and dancing in the lazy late summer sunshine, Penelo felt cold all the way down her spine.

'The Master Chop?' she whispered, aghast.

'Oho,' Jules crowed, 'I reckon she knows what we're on about, that will save some time.' 

Gerty opened her mouth and Penelo wished she could voluntarily go deaf right there and then. She did not want to hear what the Streetears were going to ask her (force her) to do next. She could guess. 

'Miss, this is terrible important or else I'd not ask it of yer, but we need that Chop. We need yer to get it away from 'is Lordship, jus' for a few hours so's we can 'ave a copy made. I promise yer on my Ma and Pa's graves that we'll destroy the copy soon as we got Ned on the senate.' 

Penelo barely heard Gerty as it seemed to her that the sunshine went dark, the boisterous singing went silent and the insects stopped buzzing through the dust on the road kicked up by the trundling wagons and the Chocobos. All she could hear was the thumping of her blood in her head and feel her heart squeezing closed. 

They wanted her to steal from Larsa and what was worse was she thought she could do it too. Not just because Vaan had taught her how to pick a pocket in half a second and Balthier had taught her how to con a man of his Gil with a smile, but because she knew that Larsa would hand over the Master Chop to her if she asked him too and that made it so much worse.

Could she claim to still be doing all this for Larsa if doing what she had promised to do would mean betraying his trust? 

Could she refuse to help Dr Ned and the Vulgars when she knew what it felt like to be powerless and poor and trapped in a city that should be your home but was more like a prison? 

What did she do when either choice would lead to betrayal? 

* * *

**Vadinsk; the foothills of Mount Bur-Omisace**

The first person Larsa saw as he led his citizens (or rather walked self-consciously at the head of an unruly rabble of southern Archadians whose exact purpose for being here was known only to themselves) was Balthier. 

The Lady Ashe's husband saw their approach and was leaning casually against the shovel he had been using to dig open trenches in the light dusting of summer snow blanketing the hills of Kerwon, by the time Larsa reached him.

'Well met, Balthier.' Larsa smiled though in truth the older man made him nervous. 

Balthier belonged to his brother Vayne's generation of Archadian's, twisted by the ambitions of their fathers and irreparably scarred by it. Larsa dealt with their sort daily and was heartily sick of their invertebrate cynicism that clogged the wheels of change in the Capital. 

Whereas Larsa's dead (and secretly, privately, lamented) brother Vayne had destroyed his soul to become that which the Empire expected of him, Balthier, in Larsa's opinion, had destroyed his soul to escape that expectation. Both men, it should also be noted, were guilty of the crime of patricide. 

Larsa, for obvious reasons, took a dim view of killing a member of ones own family, no matter the justification. 

With his usual laconic cynicism Balthier quirked one eyebrow and regarded Larsa with the jaded eyes of a man who was guilty of so many crimes in the country Larsa was responsible for (and whose laws he had sworn to see upheld) reciting the list would be an insult to both of them.

'I'll grant you that we are met,' Balthier drawled, 'but there is little well about it.' 

Larsa frowned confused; with a jerk of his head Balthier gestured to the hole he had been digging. Larsa looked down to see a death shrouded body at the bottom of what he had naively assumed was a ditch but was in fact a grave. 

'Surely the Ascendancy has offered no aggression?' Larsa asked sharply. There had been no signs in the immediate environment of any violence or military engagement. 

Balthier smirked humourlessly, 'Not quite, at least not to us. The Gran Kiltias and her followers have not been so lucky. Her Highness is livid; you should head into camp, she'll want to talk with you.' 

The older man shrugged, blithely uncaring of the corpse beneath their feet. Larsa, who had been raised in a hard school of life himself (he had lost his family and become Emperor of an empire ready to implode at the tender age of twelve. By sixteen he had survived six attempts on his life) and was not unaccustomed to death and violence, still he did not overly admire Balthier's callous disregard either. 

Compassion was not a weakness and Larsa prayed that he would never come to see it as such. 

Larsa had promised himself that the day he looked into a mirror and saw his brother's dead eyes looking back at him was the day he gave up the reins of Empire for good. 

'Very well Balthier, I shall do so. Is there space for these men and women in the encampment?' 

Larsa gestured to the people still marching up the hill behind him. Balthier once more afforded him a disinterested shrug, wry smirk unmoving across his face.

'Hardly, but they can go back the way they came if they wish.' 

Without further ado Balthier turned back to filling the grave with snow, rocks, gravel and frozen black dirt and Larsa headed down the other side of the hill towards the makeshift encampment, fires burning like golden eyes, waiting in the gathering darkness. 

* * *

**The encampment; foothills of Kerwon**

Penelo nibbled her bottom lip and huddled under her wolf pelt blankets holding her hands to the small fire. 

Being here so close to Mount Bur-Omisace, with the cold air hanging over her and pressing down on her, watching the sparks fly upwards into a night sky laden with stars, reminded her of five years ago when they had sheltered with the refugees at Mount Bur-Omisace's summit. 

There was a strange cheer in the encampment. Archadians and Dalmascans and Bhujerbans and Landissians talked and laughed and shared campfire stories together over spit roasted wolf and the kegs of ale the Landissians and Archadians had brought with them. 

It should have made her happy that all these people who used to be enemies and hated each other could talk and laugh and share a meal and the heat of a fire together in a cold night like this, but she couldn't find it in her to cheer. 

She did not know what to do. She had never faced a decision like this before. 

Really, she had not had to make that many really important decisions in her life. Usually other people did that for her. 

Even the big moment in Bhujerba when Fran had asked she and Vaan if they would go with the Pirates and Ashe and Basch to the tomb of Dalmasca's national hero that she had barely even heard of, even then she had simply done as Vaan did. 

Just like she always had; Vaan would decide to do something, making that big decision, even if it was a bad one, and then she would decide on the smaller matter of whether or not to follow him. 

The same thing happened with becoming an envoy to Archades. Ashe had decided and Penelo had agreed. In truth most of Penelo's life had happened without her actively choosing to do anything at all. 

That was sort of pathetic, she now decided. 

If she stole the Master Chop it would be the first time she had made a decision to do something really important without anyone telling her too; without anyone to even ask about it, because to ask was to admit what she was thinking of maybe doing and she couldn't do that. 

For no good reason, because Faram knew he was the last person to ask for sensible advice, Penelo wished Vaan was here and not somewhere in Rozzarian with Al-Cid Margrace. 

A hand gently brushed her shoulder and made her jump. Instinctively she reached for the small dagger hidden under the furs beneath her on the floor. She looked up and found herself almost drowned in Larsa's deep, starlit dark blue eyes.

'Forgive me Penelo, I did not mean to startle you, are you well? You have been sitting by this fire all alone for some time. I had thought you may like company?' 

Had she been the sort to cry she might have done so right then; she watched as with a sweet, kindly smile, Larsa settled down on the furs facing her across the small fire. 

He did not say anything but his eyes were filled with a gentle, but unobtrusive concern. They invited her to talk if she wanted to but would not press her if she wanted to stay quiet.

If she hadn't loved him before she thought she might have fallen head over heels in love with him right then. 

The fire light danced across the planes of his face, casting his strong, straight nose in sharp relief and glittered in the strands of his ebony hair bringing out hidden red highlights. She thought he was beautiful but wasn't sure he'd like her saying so. 

Penelo managed a tenuous smile for him, 'I'm fine, really, it's just…'

She had to stop herself, looking into Larsa's eyes glittering with firelight, the noise and bustle of the encampment a million miles from this private moment between them, from blurting out all her worries and all her secrets. 

'Penelo you do not have to tell me if it is difficult.' Larsa said carefully easily reading her, 'but I hope that you would trust me enough to know that I would keep your confidence. You know that you have only to ask and I would do anything in my power to help you.' 

Tears prickled her eyelids, 'Yes, yes I know Larsa. I know you would.' _That's why this is all such a mess. _

They sat in silence for a little while. Penelo kept her eyes down and Larsa busied himself throwing a few more twigs onto the dwindling fire. 

'Larsa,' she spoke up suddenly, 'do you believe that you can help a person by doing something behind their back? Not a bad thing, but something that they can't know about even though you are doing it for them. Does that make sense at all?' 

She laughed, high and nervous. The sound fell into the fire and burned to ash in an instant. 

Larsa nodded his head subconsciously as he thought seriously about what she said. She had always appreciated that about him that he listened and considered what anyone said to him even if it was something dumb. He always listened. She thought it was one of his best qualities. 

'I think I understand you.' Larsa said softly, watching her carefully from over the flames as she twisted her hands together nervously. 

'You want to know if a person can help someone without that person asking for that help or even appreciating the effort if they were to know of it. Am I close?' 

Penelo nodded her head mutely. 

Larsa smiled. It was a wistful smile. She watched him turn his head to look up to the darker blackness against the night sky that was Mount Bur-Omisace's summit. 

'When I was twelve years old I went behind my father's and my brother's back to sue for peace with my nation's enemies.' 

Penelo detected a sort of twinkle in his eyes as he turned back to regard her seriously. In anyone else she might have thought it was pride, but Larsa was one of the least proud men she knew. He was strong and compassionate and brave and forthright, but he was never conceited or over proud.

With the same oddly wistful smile, a smile that should have belonged to someone much older than Larsa and spoke of hard choices and quiet sorrows, of a life led in the firing line doing what was right but not always safe or easy, he continued talking. 

'I entered into a correspondence with Al-Cid Margrace, in line to the throne of my nation's greatest rival, and I travelled alongside a woman and her entourage who was bound and determined to wage war against my home and family. I believed then that what I did was for Archadia and my family's good, even though, had my father known, he would have stopped me.' 

'And now, Larsa, do you still think it was worth it?' she all but whispered barely heard over the crackle of the fire. 

She had never truly thought about what it had cost him to join the six of them on their journey to reach Mount Bur-Omisace all those years ago, or how much it had cost him, at twelve years old, to stand against his brother on the Bahamut. She had always known, of course, that it had taken immense bravery and self belief, but she had never really thought long and hard about it until now. 

Larsa dazzled her with a sudden smile, 'Yes. I cannot pretend that I don't wish things had turned out differently; that my actions had managed to save my father, Judge Drace, Gabranth and even Vayne from harm, but I have never doubted that what I did was right, nor do I regret it, though at the time I remember being quite beside myself with doubt.' 

Penelo grinned at him, 'You didn't seem scared or doubtful to me. I remember how I thought you were so brave when Ashe was mean to you in Jahara and you stayed so calm and in control. I kept forgetting you were only twelve. I still can't believe you were only twelve.' 

She laughed and Larsa laughed with her. This time the sound of their laughter floated upwards with the golden, orange sparks from the fire into the starlit sky. 

'Well, I thank you for that, Penelo. I assure you however that I was very aware that I was just a boy trying to play in an adult's world. If I am to be honest often times I still feel like that.' 

Penelo shook her head, stood up, and taking her blankets with her, sat down again beside Larsa. She beamed at him. 'Trust me Larsa; you are definitely not a boy.'

For a moment she had a brief flash of the taut muscles moving under Larsa's pristine, bare white skin. She closed her eyes to banish the unwanted memory and the pleasurable tingle it invoked and licked her lips before continuing.

'Sometimes I think you have more maturity than Ashe, Balthier, Al-Cid and all of them put together.' She added smiling. 

Larsa beamed back at her, 'You are flattering me, Penelo, and soothing my tender pride, when all this time I sought to make you feel better.' He shook his head ruefully and rooted about in the folds of his fine coat. Penelo watched him curiously.

After a moment Larsa withdrew a small, roundish, irregular shaped…._something_….from his pocket and offered it to her.

'I had almost forgotten about this, which is ironic as I have been carrying with like a precious jewel since we departed Rabanastre. Vaan asked me to give this to you. He said that it would help you with something that has been weighing on your mind.' 

Penelo gaped down at the Star Fruit in his hands. She took up the fruit with almost trembling fingers, and held the fruit close to her chest. Suddenly she was struggling to breathe and could barely see for the black and white star bursts that danced before her eyes.

_Vaan…..how could he know? Does he know or is it just coincidence?_

'Vaan gave you this to give to me?' Penelo whispered.

'Well yes, though I confess I fail to see the significance.' seeing the dumb-founded expression on her face Larsa placed his own gloved hand over hers as she held the Star fruit. 'Penelo are you quite well? You have grown terribly pale.' 

It seemed to Penelo like a sign. 

Vaan's silly theory about Star fruits changing the fate of Ivalice whispered through her mind. She thought about the light-hearted promise she had made to Vaan that she would seduce and marry Larsa for his benefit. She thought about her genuine desire to help the Vulgars of Archades. 

She thought about her genuine desire for Larsa, too. 

With Larsa's hand on hers, his caring, gentle, but quietly passionate, vibrant, presence all around her and his warmth radiating through the slim gap between them side-by-side on the furs, she thought about promises and decisions and doing the right thing in the wrong ways.

Penelo looked at the Star fruit in her hands. Larsa's hand in warm in hers, and smiling, she made her big decision. 

She turned her head just as Larsa had leaned into her with concern written all across his face, his lips parted on speech and she darted in and she kissed him. 

Penelo, the dancing orphaned shop girl from Rabanastre who had followed her best friend head long into danger and had been tumbling in the riptide of fate ever since, dug her fingers into Larsa's silky hair and kissed him in a way she had never kissed anyone.

She kissed him long and hard and deeply and he kissed her back with equal intensity. 

The Star fruit, it's secret work done, was left forgotten on the fur palette by the burned out fire as, looking about them furtively, the shop-girl and the Emperor dashed across the darkened night, flickering with firelight and the bawdy songs of different cultures coming together for a greater good, and disappeared, hand in hand, into one of the waiting tents. 

Having made her decision Penelo spent the rest of the night actively and energetically reaping the rewards of her decisiveness. 

* * *

**The Encampment; foothills of Kerwon**

As dawn ghosted over the sharp spires of the mountains and fell like the gods distant blessing upon the encampment one slightly dishevelled blonde woman, hair loose and flowing down her back, dashed across the camp as silent as snowfall towards a dirty looking dark haired man puffing in ill temper on a cigarette.

Without a word spoken between them the pretty, young, blonde woman handed over a slim, white sliver of wood to the man with dirty fingernails. In an instant the man had spirited the item out of sight into the folds of his heavily darned coat. 

'Ta very much, love.' The dark haired man irreverently broke the still, taut, silence of the moment with ironic lack of care. 

The blonde woman, mouth trembling, turned away without a word and dashed back across the encampment. 

Then, half way between the dark unkempt man and somewhere better, she stopped and spun on her heels. With a deft flick of her wrist and an equally swift incantation she cast a Silence spell on the dark haired man that would end up taking ten Echo Screens and five Esuna castings to lift. 

Choices had been made, decisions acted on, and the future's dire consequences accepted, but above all Penelo had learned that silence was golden.

Particularly among those complicit in betrayal most foul. 

* * *

_A/N: so okay, Larsa didn't get to fight, that comes next chapter, but he did get some action! ;)_


	26. Chapter 26

**The Encampment; foothills of Kerwon**

_A/N: Hello, violence warning. Nothing that I haven't written before but I still like to post a warning, this one is pretty dark and gory. _

_Also I am intending to post near daily updates (depending on how fast I can write this story without the unfortunate distractions of, y'know, real life). I have set myself the deadline of finishing this story by Easter Monday (24__th__ March) so we're on the final countdown now. ;)_

* * *

The Ascendancy attacked the encampment in the dead hour before the dawn. 

Parachute troops discended, supported by cannonade fire from the floating purveema's above the camp, intent on setting the tents alight and sending the civilians into a panic wherein they would run straight into the red robed zealots flowing down the mountain slopes with their bayonets.

The sentry scouts from Bhujerba detected the first wave of parachutists and sent out the alarm, this meant that when the first bombing raid began, huge shells fired from the purveema's high above their heads, most of the civilians were able to flee to safety, herded towards Vadinsk and beyond. 

Most of the civilians were spared but not all; forty seven people died when the shell obliterated a collection of tents, leaving a smoking crater in the frost glazed, rocky ground. 

Two days of burying the Kiltia dead, flung from the mountain top like a bloody, macabre gauntlet sent to challenge her and now this. 

Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, with cannon fire in her eyes and the smoke of war billowing at her back, raised the Sword of Kings a wordless cry on her lips and led a furious charge against the Ascendancy.

Two hours later Ashe found herself at the head of an enraged mob of different races, Bangaa, Seeq, Numou, Hume, armed with hand held incendiaries, pitch forks, small swords, butcher knives and the wild, caged animal rage of those who fight for their lives and in vengeance for those who fell all around them. 

At some point in the heat of battle, somewhere in the moments of thoughtless reflex that she encountered between anguished arcs of her sword, the weight of the Sword of Kings bringing the heavy, two-handed blade down through bone, blood and cartilage with elemental force, she had managed to mount a Chocobo. 

From the back of the bird, yellow plumage splashed with liquid crimson, Ashe screamed out commands that were not so much heard as intuited by those around her.

'The Ascendancy seek to rout us. They seek to push us back from the mountain. We must not be deterred; make for the slopes.' 

It was insane and terribly reckless but this was not a time for forethought and stratagem. The enemy gave them no quarter, slaughter was in the air. 

Ashe rode into a thick knot of Ascendancy soldiers, their red cowls a mocking promise of the carnage they would bring to her and those who followed her. 

Arrows tore through the golden, dawn limned air it seemed that to Ashe that she could not see beyond the tunnel of rage obscuring her vision. All she saw were the red cowled figures in her mental target sights. 

She rode one hand on the reins the other gripping her sword which she swung wildly, hacking and slashing at the enemy who swarmed around her seeking to pull her from her mount. 

Something hit her, painfully hard, like a punch from the very sky that tore through her right shoulder. The shock of impact stole her breath and caused her to lose her grip on the Chocobo, which reared in fright. 

Falling backwards from the Chocobo she saw the bird twist, with a fearsome squawk, neck craned and beak snapping at the forest of arrows that sprouted from its breast as it fell to the icy coated carpet of old snow. 

Ashe hit that deceptively soft but monstrously hard quilt of snow with a resounding crash instinctively her hands had already groped for the arrow impaling her shoulder. 

She tore the arrow head from her flesh with a scream more of rage than pain (the pain would come after, should she survive the lethal cocktail of shock and adrenalin that rampaged through her veins).

A red swathed figure lunged at her, throwing his body across her, sour breath in her face, hot and foul. Fingers curled around her neck; a man's thumb pushing down on her wind pipe. 

Numb all down her right side, her own blood almost scolding hot in the chilled dawn atmosphere, Ashe kicked and struggled to fight her way free. She groped with her left hand for the Sword of Kings, flung from her grip as she fell, lying quiet and inert by the steaming, bloodied form of the dead Chocobo. 

The crushing pressure on her windpipe made her want to choke and vomit. With the wild savagery and lack of finesse of someone on the verge of unconscious (and knowing that should she black out she would never revive) she thrust her head forward, jaws snapping like a she-couerl, and lunged to bite down on the man's nose.

She closed her jaws on the fleshy tip of his nose with all the strength she had left to her. Her teeth met through his flesh and blood exploded in her mouth; salt and copper and the taste of Hume flesh.

With a scream the man reared back, letting her go as he staggered to his feet and gripped his nose. Ashe spat out the chunk of flesh and the mouthful of blood. Rolling over, coughing and retching, she reached for her sword with shaking left hand.

Above her attacker pulled a scimitar from behind his back. 'Filthy whore, you die.' 

Caught in the nimbus of the sun rising and sending her pale dawn light in liquid shards across the gold coated snow, a second figure, lithe and limber, rose like a gift from the gods behind the red Ascendancy soldier. 

A hand curled around the man's neck as the point of a rapier erupted from the man's diaphragm. 

'I rather think not, sir.' 

An Archadian voice cool and dispassionate as the sun on the snow of the battleground provided a wry requiem for the Rozzarian soldier as he collapsed, his thick blood steaming over his chin, dropping to his knees, tearing his innards open on the vicious blade of Joyeux.

'Lady Ashe can you stand?' 

Larsa Solidor stepped from the shadow of the rising sun and stretched out an arm to help her to her feet. 

'I do not ordinarily favour such underhanded tactics as stabbing a man in the back, but the situation gave me little other recourse. Are you well Lady Ashe?' 

It was a tiny transient moment, neither noted nor recorded by the two allies in the midst of the terrible skirmish, yet the silhouettes they cast in the dancing light of dazzling snow, new sunlight and the flash of steel blades, told their own story.

The Emperor of Archadian reached down a hand to draw the Queen of Dalmasca to her feet and the two, one baring twin rapiers, the other the historic Sword of Kings, stood back to back in the face of the approaching hordes of a common foe. 

'The slopes are laced with traps; Sten Needles felled ten people on the approach to Bur-Omisace. The Ascendancy are trying to drive us in our hundreds towards their death traps, we must stop the people from doing so.' 

Larsa shouted to Ashe as, with the co-ordination of two people baptised in battle at a young age, they both stepped forward to lunge at the three mounted Ascendancy cavalry who charged them.

Larsa's twin rapiers found their home in the beating heart of one of the Chocobos, the avian was innocent but Larsa knew that the best way of levelling the odds of this fight was to knock the enemy from their mounts. 

The bird collapsed with its own piteous shriek and staggered away, blood spouting from its arterial wound. 

As the creature lost its footing and crashed down the slope towards the crevasse below them, taking its rider with it down into the dark and quiet and unfathomably deep fissure in the frozen ground, Larsa twisted, parried and thrust his blades through the second soldier, foolish enough to have dismounted. 

Ashe, her right arm useless, had not been so successful in her initial rush against the third rider. 

Missing with her lunge, the weight of the Sword of Kings had over-balanced her and she staggered to one knee; her blood brilliant and steaming in the frigid air creating a sticky sleeve for her right arm and coating her chest. 

Instinct forced her to roll under the body of the third riders mount. With fumbling fingers she caught up the Sword of Kings in both hands, screaming against the tearing pain in her muscles as her right shoulder protested the movement. 

With scant seconds saving her from the talons of the Chocobo's stamping feet, Ashe thrust the sword up through the underbelly of the bird's bright yellow plumage at the unprotected spot where the creatures armour met.

A deluge of blood cascaded down across her face. The deluge blinded Ashe, scolding and choking her, as the Sword of Kings, powered by her will more so than her failing body, thrust ever upwards, twisting and slicing the Chocobo's heart into shreds. 

'Lady Ashe!' 

She heard Larsa's cry, she heard the death grunt of the final rider as Larsa swung his sword at the man's neck and she saw his body, head all but parted from the trunk of his neck, eyes wide and glazed fall to the snow beside her. She heard and saw all this as with the inevitability of gravity, the dying Chocobo fell on top of her. 

She heard the snap as, both hands still clenched around the hilt of her sword, which in turn was still lodged between the ribs of the Chocobo, her wrists broke with the impact. She did not have time to register the pain before the giant bird finally collapsed across her chest, crushing her into the ice packed rocky ground. 

As she felt herself succumb to pain and shock Ashe's thoughts turned to her babies, alone in their cradle, and suddenly as she descended into oblivion Ashe began to cry. 

The first indication she had that she was not dead was pain. Then the flicker of healing magick, cool fire spreading within her tired, aching, body overtook the pain. 

'Ashe? Ashe can you hear me?' 

'Cast again Penelo.' 

'By the gods what happened, what possessed the two of you to venture so far from the ranks?' 

'It was hardly by design, Marquis. The Lady Ashe led the assault in defence of innocent lives and I followed to offer what support I could.' 

'And we're glad of it Larsa, you saved Ashe's life.' 

'Hush, she revives.' 

Ashe forced her eyes open and found herself looking up at a ring of concerned and anxious familiar faces. 

Immediately she tried to sit up, instantly hands pushed her back down onto her palette and she had not the strength to resist.

Ashe focused on Fran whose long clawed hands held her down with gentle certainty. Ashe could not formulate the words to pose her question, having in the brief few seconds of wakefulness, already registered Balthier's absence. 

Fran, of course, did not need words. She nodded once and that was all Ashe needed. Balthier was well she could worry on other matters. 

'What of the people; the encampment?' Ashe croaked after she had been helped to sit up and sip from a flask of water mixed with a potion tonic. 

Ashe studied the faces of Penelo, her hands still glowing with the vestiges of the healing spells she had used to revive Ashe, Larsa, battle-worn and bloodstained now an ally not just through truce but, finally within Ashe's mind, in truth and deed as well, her dear uncle Halim, grim but calm and Fran placid, serene and eternally secretive. 

'It's okay Ashe,' Penelo reached out and touched her shoulder. 

'You've been asleep for about fourteen hours; me and Basch, Balthier and Fran were able to get most of the people to safety while you and Larsa and the people with you took down most of the troops that attacked us.' 

Ashe digested this news, 'How many people died?' 

There was a pause, a moments furtive silence in which time Ashe bit the inside of her mouth until she tasted blood and waited for the final death toll that was never, ever, final enough.

'Ninety-six confirmed dead, a further six hundred with injuries of varied severity.' Uncle Halim finally conceded.

Ashe blinked, 'Not more?' she queried. 

Nearly a hundred dead was a tragedy when even one death was one too many, but in an encampment of some twelve thousand souls it seemed implausible that the death toll should be so low. 

Fran nodded her head, 'The early warning saved many. That so many here, former enemies and strangers alike should work so well together, saved many more. The peace with which we travelled has been broken but not the will that inspired it.' 

Ashe nodded, though the words meant to cheer her felt hollow and alien to her ears. Did any here, did any in all Ivalice, truly know what peace was? Would they ever been given the opportunity to find out? 

'Where are Basch and Balthier now?' she asked, sensing that their absence was significant and wondering what dire circumstance could force those two together. 

There was another twitching, hesitant pause just as Ashe was about to lose her never very great patience and demand an answer Larsa spoke up.

'Much has happened since I returned with you back to the remnants of the camp. An opportunity arose that could not be overlooked.' 

Ashe narrowed her eyes, 'What opportunity?' she demanded.

Penelo reached out to gently, almost awkwardly, squeeze Ashe's cold hand for a moment. 

'It's okay Ashe, really. Basch and Balthier led some of the Landissians and the Bhujerbans on a scouting mission around the mountain slopes; when you pushed back the Rozzarian attack it left their defences open and so we started up the mountain after them.' 

'Up the mountain?' Ashe looked to her uncle, silently commanding a straightforward answer.

'We are now on the summit; we have Mishman and his Ascendancy besieged within the temple walls.'

'But how?' Ashe could not be more astounded. 'What of the gunners on the purveema's, the traps on the slopes?'

Ondore nodded in grave understanding but a strange smile lurked at the edges of his usually stern mouth.

'It appears that the kiltia of Bur-Omisace, those not killed by the Ascendancy, revolted during the attack on our encampment. They escaped from the temple and joined with our forces. Faced with our sheer numbers, men and women of all races rallied under the banner of the Dynast Queen, many of the Rozzarian troops have deserted or voluntarily surrendered.' 

'Surrendered?' Ashe knew that repeating what she had just heard did not constitute intelligent questioning but her mind could barely comprehend what she was being told. 

Halim nodded the faintest of smiles playing upon his grave visage, 'I have never seen such a thing in all my years, my child. I confess I did not believe that even a woman of your calibre could inspire such a gathering of disparate peoples and compel them in such a way that a trained army should quake in fear. Yet I have now seen it with my own eyes.'

Ashe swallowed down on bitter bile, shaking her head viciously, 'I have commanded nothing. I have been asleep all this time, if such a fate has fallen out as you say it has then it has nothing to do with me.' 

Her uncle smiled more readily, with obvious affection, 'As you will, niece, as you will. Perhaps you would like to see it for yourself?' 

Halim reached out a hand to her and cautiously, feeling both suspicious and afraid, Ashe rose with help from her palette and, clasping her uncle's arm to help her walk as weakness and lingering fatigued dizzied her, she left the tent to see this miracle with her own eyes.

They had made not more than a few steps out of the tent, pitched just as her uncle had said on the very cusp of the final ascent to the Gran Kiltias temple where once the refugees of the Archadian wars had lived, when a wall of solid sound staggered her to a standstill.

From the winding sloping road twisting up to the no man's land of the temple and trailing back down towards the Silverfloe far below, people began to cheer and call her name and applaud almost loudly enough to cause an avalanche as they saw her. 

Ashe clutched at her uncle's arm in a moment of exquisite terror. 

She had known adoration; she had known the respect of her peers and her enemies, she had been cheered and celebrated by her own people. Yet she had never experienced anything as terrifying as this out pouring of unwarranted and undeserved worship. 

'Uncle please; do not make me address them.' 

Her whispered pleading went unheard as her uncle, deafened by the roaring, baying crowds, walked her into the throng; Ashe, who if nothing else, knew how to perform her duty, was swallowed whole in an instant.

In the long, arduous hours that followed Ashe preached mercy to their enemies. She promised a future free of strife to all those brave souls gathered here under her banner, she offered hope and reassurances to all. 

She spoke of bravery and faith and the true will of the gods that every man and woman of all species should be free to live their lives in good health, free of war and pain. 

She talked and she shouted her words of courage and conviction until her throat was hoarse and her voice cracked. 

She walked among the people until her body could hold her up no longer and with every tired inhalation and exhalation she knew herself a liar.

She could make no honest promises of peace and prosperity; she was no goddess but merely a woman. 

She had no real power over the souls of men; she had no power at all. 

She could not even care for her babies. She had left them, tiny and defenceless without even the succour of their mother's milk, to whet her blade on the blood of other women's children. 

All that day as she promised a peaceful, amicable solution to this siege, as she promised no retribution against the perpetrators of so much terror and pain, much of which had been directed directly against her and her family, she knew herself to be a liar and a poor mother.

On that day, the day that would go down in history ever more as the day the Dynast Queen ascended to the peak of her power, the will of the woman, the simple, mortal will of Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca, was broken.

When she returned to her tent and to lay her head upon her pillow she closed her eyes and fell instantly into nightmare.

_Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca wore a golden gown of the softest, finest silks. Upon her head her diadem sparkled with the cold fire of diamonds and her fingers sparked and crackled with a cornucopia of precious stones._

_The Sword of Kings poured blood like a severed artery and the walls of her palace dripped with the stuff; the very marble seemed to bleed._

_She walked through room after room of the dead and the dying and every time a pitiful soldier, limbless, eviscerated, innards spilling across the floor, cried out for mercy she sliced off their heads with the brilliant blade of her sword without a word or moments hesitation._

_In a dream torpor she made her way, daintily stepping over the bodies of strangers and dear ones alike, up the winding great stairway. Blood cascading down each step to pool at the bottom; she knew where she was going. She was headed for the nursery._

_Uncle Ondore was laid out dead, eyes open and mouth blood frothed, at the top of the stairs. She stepped over him, accidentally kicking his amber topped cane across the floor to skitter against the skirting of the bleeding walls._

_Ashelia kept walking her slippered feet squishing across the skein of blood coating the floor. She could see the doorway to the nursery; it was open. She could see the stars from the children's mobile twisting and dancing over the walls._

_At the doorway to the nursery she found Balthier's body. A gunshot to the head had removed his beloved face but his brown eyes remained to gaze up at her with sardonic reproach; again she stepped, almost daintily, over his corpse just as she had all the others. _

_Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca entered the nursery and approached the cradle. Ashelia B'nargin Dalmasca looked down into the cradle and she screamed. _

Rearing upward in wakefulness, flinging furs and warm blankets from her as she surged upwards in her bed, the scream tore free of her throat and sliced through the quiet intimacy of the small tent she found herself in.

Strong hands caught up her forearms as she flailed wildly still screaming with enough force to pop her ears and burn her throat. 

She fought with the man who tried to hold her and with the blankets that restrained her. She choked on a desperate intake of breath and a warm hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream again.

Her eyes snapped into focus and she finally recognised the man she had attacked with tooth and nail in her waking terror. She looked into an uncharacteristically startled pair of very familiar brown eyes. 

Balthier withdrew his hand from her mouth and swiftly took her wrists into a secure grip in each of his hands, caution and wariness written across his grave, fatigued expression.

Relief and a sense of place and purpose flooded through her and Ashe sagged against his body limply, not even caring that he did not trust her mood or rationality enough to let go of her wrists and embrace her. 

'Good gods Ashe what is the matter?' 

His demand was irritated and sharp, the tone of his voice alone indicating his alarm. The smooth veneer had been worn away and the Leading man was at wits end. 

Inexplicably Ashe began to sob in earnest; crying in a way she had not ever done before.

Balthier had no better way of handling the presence of a hysterically crying woman than any other man would. With an awkward clumsiness that Ashe would have found amusing if she hadn't been sobbing so hard her head hurt, Balthier encircled his arms around her.

'Sweet gods what ails you, Ashe?' he muttered dazedly as she clutched at his light, leather armour covered chest and wept as if her heart was breaking. 

Something lodged inside her breastbone, pushing against her labouring heart and crushing her lungs. She wanted to scream and scream and scream. She wanted to tell Balthier to take her home. She wanted to see her babies. She wanted to hold her babies. She wanted to never again have to be a queen and instead wished only to be a mother. 

Her chest ached from weeping and the phantom pain from her magickally healed arrow wound and her healed wrists throbbed with remembered agony. 

'No more. No more. I cannot do this anymore. I cannot dance around and around in this constant, monstrous façade. I cannot pretend to be what I am not. I am not worthy of this...this _worship_, this constant responsibility.'

There was so much blood; so much pain. So many phantom wounds, covered up and magicked away, but the scars went deeper than flesh. 

'I want to go home. I want my children.' 

There was so much blood on her hands, both literal and metaphorical, that would never wash away. How could she cradle her babies in her arms when she knew what these hands had done? 

'It is always violence; violence and death and pain and the promise of peace that never comes. It hurts and I can't do this any longer.' 

How could she love and nurture her beautiful babes; how could she let them walk out into the world when she knew that life was on unending vicious struggle? What could she offer them but a kingdom constantly in the crosshairs of war? 

'I have nothing left. It hurts. It hurts and I can't keep doing this, I shall not. I cannot.' 

Struggling to kneel upon the palette bed she pressed her face against Balthier's shoulder, curling her fingers around his forearms. She needed to express to him the absolute and all encompassing certainty that she had reached her limit but she had lost all her eloquence, all her coherence.

She had given her all time and again and she had nothing left to give…….she feared that she was broken. 

Balthier pried her snivelling, shaking, pathetic husk from him and she expected to see contempt in his shuttered, secretive eyes. Fearful of seeing disgust for her cowardice in his eyes she averted her gaze. 

He clasped her face in his two hands, holding her head immobile and forcing her to look into his eyes. What she saw in them scared her.

She did not see the mirror of her own exhausted despair. She did not see a solid wall of cynical detachment. She did not see pity or concern. She did not even see a façade of a husbands love for his wife.

Instead she saw rage; pure unadulterated rage. 

She saw a rage that went beyond and above love or kindness or pity. She saw a rage that had resided in his soul for years, quietly stoked by one tragedy, one senseless, violent, atrocity after another that he had been forced to ignore or laugh off because one man could not change the world. 

She saw the rage of a man who would and _had_ risked his life and livelihood for her. The rage of a man who hated with every fibre of his being the despair that had invaded her mind and stolen her will.

For the first time in her life she looked into his eyes and knew, absolutely, that the _real_ Balthier looked back at her. 

'Ask me.' 

The bitten off monosyllables were harsh enough to have drawn blood, or so it seemed to Ashe; his hands against her cheeks gripped her almost too tightly. She could not move; she could barely breathe.

'Ask me to help you, Ashe. Do it.' 

The words were on the tip of her tongue. In her soul she knew what she wanted. She understood in everyway what she wanted him to do. She knew it was cowardice and treachery. She knew it was a betrayal of everything the Dynast Queen stood for.

She also knew that she was not the Dynast Queen, not now, not ever. She was simply herself, Ashelia, and she was but four and twenty years old. Forced by capricious fate and duty to leave her newborns and lead a doomed charged for peace. 

She was supposed to lead by example, to show mercy to those who had hurt her, threatened her, terrorised her children and kingdom. Yet she had no mercy left to her. 

She was merely a woman of flesh and blood and in her heart she wanted Mishman Margrace dead. 

With her face trapped between his palms she tried to shake her head, biting down on her lip to keep her cowardly, brutally unfair desires from being spoken. She could not ask this of him, she could not, should not expect it. She should not even wish it.

She was a fraud masquerading as a great and just Queen; she was no more than a weak and craven coward. 

She could not give a cornered man in a crumbling tower mercy, but neither could she kill this despised enemy herself. 

'….I…..I…' she stuttered. She could not say it out loud. 

She met his eyes and their gazes locked. Was the reason that she loved him so because he had always, ultimately, fulfilled her wishes? Had he not always, eventually, capitulated to her will and her desire? 

Was that an inequity in their relationship; her dependency on his compliance and his willingness to bend to her demands, or was that their strength? 

Balthier let her face go, his hands falling away to fall limply and with none of his usual careful elegance, to his lap. Shaking she clasped his hands, never once dropping his gaze. 

She did not once ask……..and still he acquiesced to her tainted will. 

She did not say a word when he leaned forward and kissed her chastely on her forehead, almost as if granting a benediction, before he rose to his feet and walked smoothly, calmly, towards the tent flap. 

It would have been easier if she had remained stubbornly silent, but she could not.

'Where are you going, what will you do?' she sounded like a child, quiet and meek. She had never hated herself more.

Balthier threw her a laughing look over his shoulder as he flipped aside the tent flap to let the icy gale in.

'To pray, Highness, what else? A mutual acquaintance once told me that the gods help those who help themselves. I think I shall seek out one such helpful deity.' 

'You will be back in the morning?' 

And still she could not rid herself of her craven, clinging weakness, even as her insides churned with self-loathing. 

He smiled at her, sweetly, kindly, with naked eyes. 

'I shall be back in the morning, Princess.' 

Then he stepped out into the night gale and left Ashe alone with her own thoughts. She collapsed, slowly, back onto her warm furred palette and longed for guilt to drown her. 

Yet despite herself, or maybe because of herself, she could not feel regret for what was to come and for what she had not the will to do herself. 

Even through her furious tears she knew that in the morning all her troubles would be over and all it would take was the damnation of her husband's soul. 


	27. Chapter 27

**The Encampment; foothills of Kerwon**

_A/N: Grrr, self imposed deadlines...don't do it, just say no. I'm writing right to the line on this one but I think I can make my deadline ;)_

_P.S. As always thank you to all of you who read and review (and of course just read, though it's nice to hear from new people) your feedback is always gratefully received ;)_

* * *

The icy gale that hit him in the face as he left Ashe's tent was hardly much by the standards of the local climate; summer in Kerwon being generally identified by slightly less snow, slightly less sleet and slightly more sun than in any other time of the year. 

On balance Balthier thought he preferred ice and snow and a biting, commanding breeze to the arid, still, lethargic heat of Dalmasca, which all things considered and being married to a desert queen, was somewhat odd.

_I've always been a contrary sort._

The Encampment was electrified by a sense of impending expectation; there was fear in the air, fear of another sudden enemy attack, but more than that there was the sense that every one of the pilgrims of peace (as Balthier could not help but sneeringly refer to them as) was waiting for the big moment, the showpiece finale. 

The rifle bumping against Balthier's shoulder, as he strolled through the snowy spaces between tents towards Ondore's command centre, irritated him. It had been years since he had been bothered by the heavy weight of a gun in his hands; not since he was fifteen and first inducted into the Judge rifle infantry for a brief spell of training. 

The weight that bothered him now was more symbolic than physical. The stain of Ashe's tears had bled through his leather jerkin straight through to his flesh. The stiff breeze iced over the wet patch and chilled his heart. 

Ondore's tent was, in the purely physical and aesthetic sense, no different in appearance than any of the other tents in this canvas and fabric shanty town perched in the shadow of the Kiltia temple, a collection of cloth wigwams trying to intimidate a fortress carved from the very rock of the mountain, but in ambiance it had been suffused with the purpose and subtlety of its occupant.

Pushing open the entry flap to the large tent with its table top war field and its crates of weaponry and explosives, the scent of cordite and gunpowder enough to make even his de-sensitised nose quiver, Balthier swiftly took inventory of who was present and what was afoot.

Little Lord Larsa was present and attentive as expected (Balthier was well aware that Larsa did not particularly care for him and found it rather amusing; whenever Balthier looked into the Solidor true blue eyes he saw the family that had destroyed his father, sometimes he wondered what Larsa saw in a mirror). 

Penelo, looking oddly wane and with shoulders bowed, stared limpidly up at the young Emperor with an odd mixture of girlish adoration and guilt. Balthier ignored this for the most 

part, had he wanted too he could no doubt parse out what mess the girl had got into but he had too much on his mind to take on another's troubles.

Regrettably Basch was also present; while as Balthier and the former Knight and semi-retired Judge-Magister now newly free Citizen of Landis had no trouble fighting side by side in matters of life and limb, their ability to be civil to one another lessened with each passing day. 

For his part Balthier refused to take responsibility for this; if Basch would take a dislike to him that was his business but Balthier would argue to his dying day that the man was nothing but prejudiced. 

Balthier hesitated momentarily as he spied Fran, unobtrusive but always observant in this high company of Humes in the midst of a very Hume battle. 

Fran could read him like a navigation chart, she could discern the currents of his thoughts and the flow of his mood with an ease that surpassed even his own ability to judge his mind; right now that was dangerous indeed. 

Balthier did not want to look too deep into what went on his mind; as the old nautical saying had it, there be dragons. 

'Balthier, how fares Lady Ashe?' 

Ondore looked up from his consideration of the battlefield laid out in silver gilt miniature on the table. Calm, old eyes, neither beaten nor wearied by years of politicking met his own. Balthier saw no reason to lie.

'Poorly. We need to end this siege and swiftly.' 

'Alas sieges are not known to be swift endeavours.' Ondore's dry tones spoke in their own code. 

It was the language of true blue cynics, Balthier unsurprisingly, needed no translation. He had been up half the night before discussing means of extracting a swift and decisive end to this siege. 

'There is a first time for everything, Marquis. Ashe is eager to return to Rabanastre for obvious reasons.' 

Balthier refrained from mentioning what those reasons were, refrained from even actively recalling the sheer desolation in her storm tossed eyes. It did not matter however for the tear stains smearing his shoulder told their stories and left little to the imagination of those gathered. 

'Poor Ashe; it must be so hard for her, away from the children and everything.' 

Penelo spoke up as he had hoped she might, the girl was over-brimming with compassion for all. 'Perhaps I should go sit with her?' 

Balthier hesitated feeling the weight of the others eyes on him, each person present deferring to a greater or lesser degree to his judgement as the man Ashe had married and assuming (rightly or wrongly) that he knew what was best for her. 

'Perhaps that might be for the best.' He finally conceded knowing even as he did so that admitting that Ashe was in no fit state to be left to her slumber alone was as good as admitting her despairing state.

Penelo bit her lip, nodded, glanced at Larsa, and then rose to her feet and moved swiftly past Balthier out of tent. She may have been a peculiar mix of girlish sweetness and burgeoning manipulation but Penelo was still, for the moment, a good and loyal ally. 

She was loyal to Ashe in any respect and right this moment, whether she knew it or not, Ashe needed a friend. She might need all the friends she could get to weather the storm come the morning. 

Come what may, whether it be assassination or surrender, acts of good or acts of man. 

Even before Ashe had broken down before his eyes; even before he watched his lovely, stubborn, ridiculously determined and passionate bride collapse into helpless fury, he and Ondore had devised no less than five separate means to murder Mishman Margrace either within the confines of the Kiltia temple or on the road to his inevitable incarceration once the man surrendered. 

That had been Balthier's intent in coming here to speak with Ondore, one last, candid (or at least as candid as a man like the Marquis would ever be) discussion of the pros and cons of the secular political murder of a religious zealot. 

'The Lady Ashe seemed well earlier today Balthier when she addressed the people, what has happened now?' 

Basch stepped forward with a rustle of simple homespun cloth, light armour and worn leathers. The accusation in his tone scolded the frigid air within the tent and Balthier felt his own fraying temper rise to meet it.

The silent addition to his spoken question rang in Balthier's mind, an accusation that _he_ had done something to upset Ashe.

'The Lady Ashe is a masterful actress, sir, and if you knew her half so well as you like to profess you would bloody well know what is the matter.' 

As Basch hesitated against the sudden lash of Balthier's tongue, not used to the laconic former sky pirate allowing his temper free reign. Balthier sensed, more than saw, Fran move towards him always keen to his moods and quick to soothe or divert him.

Larsa an avidly interested observer of this emerging spate did his best to appear politely disinterested, but behind the carefully blank expression and the steady blue eyes, alliances and frictions were being carefully recorded for later reference, of this Balthier had no doubts. 

'But then I suppose you are not a family man, are you, good Captain? You cannot know what it is to be parted from ones children.' 

Balthier sneered, lips twisting in an almost feral version of his usual vacuous smirk. It was a low blow and beneath either or their dignities, but at that moment he wanted to hurt the other man in a way he would not easily recover from. 

Intellectually Balthier knew he should show restraint but part of him, the part that was buried deep, the part that was just a man of not quite eight and twenty who was tired of violence and war, wanted to shout out that his wife had just begged him with silent weeping eyes to kill a man and he was of half a mind to do it. 

_No doubt our ever so self-righteous Basch Fon Ronsenberg and the ascendant Emperor, who is so carefully remaining silent even as he watches all, would delight in painting me the villain who has corrupted good Queen Ashelia with the easy option; which, when one thinks about it, is rarely so easy. _

Balthier was not an aggressive man; violence was a tool to be used sparingly and precisely and then to be put away again, but at that moment looking into the eyes of Basch Fon Ronsenberg, who did not like him and did not approve of him, he found himself spoiling for a fight.

Basch's face had hardened, growing both paler and even more grim. The familiar, cloyingly serene steadiness of the man's gaze narrowed into anger. 

'Aye 'tis true I have not been blessed with children of my own, but I know what it is to serve for love and duty and had I children of my own they would have no cause to be ashamed of their paternity.' 

Basch did not raise his voice, nor did his tone alter dramatically from his usual gruff but relatively polite manner, yet all present knew the gauntlet had been thrown down. Balthier laughed, slightly high, slightly mad.

'Are you so sure, Basch Fon Ronsenberg, or is it Noah, or Gabranth?' Balthier rocked on his heels, knowing that his youth and his greater agility would be the only advantage he could carry forth into a fight with the other man. 

Almost imperceptibly Balthier noticed with manic, impish delight, Basch tighten his grip on his sword hanging from his belt. For no discernable reason Balthier wanted the man to draw first, to prove once and for all that honour was just a word.

'Enough.' 

Fran stepped forward, filling the space between Balthier and Basch, a patch of empty air electrified by their fractious, electrified dislike. 

Her presence almost instantly soothed Balthier until she turned her back slightly upon him and turned to her lover to lay a soothing hand upon his shoulder; her lover who just so happened to be Basch Fon Ronsenberg a man Balthier could fast grow to hate. 

'Well will our enemies be if we fight among ourselves. We are all allies here.' Fran said and Balthier sneered. 

He had never begrudged Fran her dalliance with Basch. While he did not profess to see the attraction he was glad that Fran had found another Hume worthy of her time. Now however he found her favour towards Basch intolerable, almost a betrayal. 

'Don't be so hasty, Fran, after all most causes that have looked to the sword of Basch Fon Ronsenberg over the years have come to a sorry end.'

Basch, as susceptible to Fran's gracious calm as Balthier himself, looked up flint eyed as Balthier idly flicked his cuffs in a show of nonchalance designed to infuriate the consummate solider.

'What do you mean by that, pirate?' Basch demanded stepping around Fran.

The tension within the tent, the very air filling with the burning of male rivalry, grew fraught. Ondore, who watched as patiently as a bird of prey circling a battlefield, now swooped in to end this folly before it could truly begin.

'We have no time for idle posturing. I suggest you both save such over-bearing aggression for the battle-field where it can be put to good use.' 

Basch at least seemed to be in possession of his faculties once more. He turned slightly to Ondore and nodded in apology and acceptance.

'You are right Marquis. I forgot myself and my position. It will not happen again.' 

'Your position?' Balthier queried.

Unwilling to let the chance, albeit a scant one, that Basch should knock him out cold with one meaty gauntleted fist and render him incapable of all further action this night go Balthier did nothing to stop the venomous words that slipped from between clenched teeth.

'Pray tell, what position is that? You have been, in recent years, a failed Knight, a man who could do nothing but watch as his own brother slay his king, a prisoner, an imposter in a dead man's clothes currying the favours of Emperor and Queen alike in a pathetic attempt to give your life meaning. Which of those illustrious positions do you dishonour here, sir, and in what way do you think you are fit to impugn me?' 

Absolute silence met Balthier's snarled verbal assault on the previously unassailable character of the good captain Basch. 

Ondore shook his head with grave distain for the foolish posturing of male rivalry. Larsa looked scandalised, but this, in Balthier's opinion, was likely no more than careful artifice. Even Fran's steady, empty regard suggested that she had not expected him to go quite so far. 

Yet for all the slander and spite that Balthier had just heaped upon him, Basch's anger instantly cooled. The carefully chosen and viciously wielded words meant to act as salt upon open wounds seemed merely to roll off the imperturbable armour of the Knight like water from a ducks back. 

'Aye,' Basch said slowly and meditatively, 'Well I know my own misfortunes Pirate, but I bare my scars without shame, can you say the same?' Basch shook his head as if to dismiss 

Balthier completely, a gesture that merely fanned the flames of the simmering dislike between them. 

'I do not forget that it was you and Fran that liberated me from the dungeon of Nalbina. For that reason and that alone I shall say no more to you and leave what has been said to be forgotten.' 

Balthier, eyes slitted in a rage left unfulfilled, watched as the older man quietly and with a dignity that had nothing to do with fine clothes and an expensive upbringing, turned his back on Balthier completely. 

Objectionable words hovered on the verge of being spoken, twitching like serpents on the edge of Balthier's tongue. Fran stepped before him, obscuring his view of the object of his extreme displeasure. 

'Outside we two shall go. This is a time and place for cool heads and steady will, you, alas, have none to offer at present.' 

With a grip on his forearm that left no room for argument Fran escorted him, like a common ruffian (or, gods forbid, like Vaan at his most obnoxiously irritating) out into the whistling winds and sleeting snow fall. 

Without a word between them the two long term partners walked side by side, Balthier seething with an almost crazed anger and Fran as coolly distant as the rattling gale, away from the encampment to clamber up onto one of the shelves of rock that jutted out from the cliff face like a giants footholds in the mountain. 

'Twisting and writhing with rage, possessed of it beyond all reason, you have become Balthier. Almost, I would not know you.' 

Fran's murmur, quiet and instantly swallowed by the icy wind, snapped against his enflamed mind like a further accusation of inadequacy to be added to the ever growing list he had been busy writing inside his mind, scrawled across his eyelids every time he so much as blinked. 

'She wept, Fran. Not a temper tantrum but crying so hard she was close to retching.' 

Balthier turned to face Fran and let her see him without the tattered remnant of the mask he always wore. 

'You know as well as I do that we shall win this siege. The Ascendancy are finished and Rozzaria, whether Al-Cid accedes to his former position or not, will restore itself in time, but what of Mishman Margrace?' 

With one gesture that spoke volumes to his own state of mind, drowning in impotent fury, he thrust out an arm and pointed towards the gathering of civilian tents, the pilgrims and followers milling about like sheep below them. 

'They shall expect Ashe to fix all this, the Dynast Queen who alone must mete out justice for all Ivalice, and we..._I..._have encouraged that illusion for my own ends. They will expect their new goddess in flesh to be merciful and benevolent.'

Balthier took a sharp breath of air into his constricted lungs, knowing that his words were twisted and maligned by the hate in him so that his usually smooth voice (that he had cultivated to such devastating affect over the years) cracked and snapped with tension. 

Over and over he kept hearing Ashe's pitiful, almost hysterical sobs, the choking sound grinding in his mind with the steady and insistent drilling of guilt travelling straight to his soul. 

'That bastard tried to kill my wife. He sent an assassin to tear my children from her _womb_, Fran. He sent a sky fleet to crush Rabanastre. He does not deserve mercy and she should not be forced to grant it to filth like him.' 

For a long moment Fran said nothing, she simply regarded him gravely, steadily. Balthier, wondering if Fran was to abandon him finally, after he had fallen so far short of both their expectations of late (and he had not forgot, could not forget, that it had been she who had stopped him from beating Al-Cid to death in Rozzaria), could only wait for her to speak.

'What has the Queen commanded of you?' 

Fran finally asked in careful tones that Balthier, for all their years of strange intimacy and symbiosis had never heard from her before. It was enough to bring him almost back to his right mind and he frowned perplexed.

'Commanded? She has not commanded me to do anything. Fran what do you mean by this?' 

For he thought, though he instantly checked the thought, that he detected a hint of reproach in Fran's voice. 

Fran cocked her head, assuming her habitual, confident, hip-cocked stance as her hair danced with the breeze at her back.

'It is the way of things, since the time of your first meeting with the Queen. She bids and you obey; she has owned your heart for these last handful years.' 

Anyone else and his pride would have demanded he refute this perception of his relationship with his wife, but Balthier had long since lost any such reflex when speaking with Fran. 

The truth was the truth and he saw no point in denying it to his dearest friend; however something of the statement demanded some form of redress, the hint of reproach, of inherent criticism towards Ashe, growing stronger in Fran's voice. 

'She _is_ my wife, Fran. One might think it slightly remiss if I ignored her wishes and did not love the woman I had married. Also, as I recall, you conspired with mutual friends to see me wed to Ashe.' 

Fran was not chastened, 'It is well that your heart in her keeping remains, but I had not thought you would consign your spirit and your will so completely to another's keeping. I fear for you that you forget who and what you are.' 

Anger completely forgotten Balthier frowned narrowly, stepping a little closer to Fran as the biting gale whipped about them on the narrow ledge above the encampment. 

'What do you mean?' 

Fran stepped that last foot to close the gap between them. Tendrils of her long, gossamer fine hair whipped up like a cloud of cobweb to lash his sleeves and face as it billowed around them both. 

'Who are you?' Fran asked him simply.

'Pardon?' Balthier almost recoiled from her at the bizarre, but forceful, question; so unexpected. 

Fran reached out to brush his cheek with her knuckles a gesture of rare and exquisite intimacy that reminded Balthier that he had missed Fran in a way that had nothing to do with proximity. 

'Who are you?' She repeated as calm and unavoidable as the mountain itself. 'Are you husband to a Queen, father to a Queen's heirs? What are you; father, husband?' 

Balthier stared, with sudden, horrified comprehension, into Fran's almond shaped reddish tinted eyes. 

So very foreign those eyes, so inexplicably _other_ to the mindset of a Hume, but to Balthier they were a mirror that restored to him that which he had not realised he had been missing; his sense of self and his self-belief. 

He drew back, startled, wounded by this moment of revelation that he had lost himself for a time. Immediately he tugged upon his sleeves and settled himself into the more familiar patterns of the man he had made of himself long before he had ever met Ashe.

'Fran, please, I'm the leading man.' he confirmed for himself more so than to her. 

Fran nodded, the slightest hint of a smile in her eyes, 'And what is the leading man about? Will he kill a man to appease a queen?' 

Balthier did not contrive to delude himself into being surprised that Fran knew the heart of his thoughts, he had for too long depended on just such an eventuality. Instead he met her eyes in a moment of silently expressed gratitude and apology.

Gratitude that she had taken it upon herself to save him from his own confusion and remind him of his very nature, and apology that even a lifetime of love, friendship and all the aid he could ever give her, would never be enough to make good the debt he owed her for her constant and undemanding partnership. 

Ashe had his heart, his body, his lifelong loyalty, but he had long ago granted his mind and soul to Fran. He was glad that she had reminded him that it was she who had helped create the leading man from the ashes of Ffamran Mid Bunansa. 

The leading man smirked, 'Fran, please, nothing so gauche as that. Anyone would think me no better than a ten Gil cutthroat plying my trade in the allies of Old Archades.' 

Balthier scoffed with the renewed confidence of a man who knows he has just escaped a fall from grace he would not have readily survived, and that he had done so through the good offices of a true friend, that rarest of gifts. 

'How then will the leading man contrive to win the battle and please his queen?' 

Fran stepped up beside him as Balthier turned to look down on the encampment with a shrewd and assessing eye. 

Balthier felt his lips quiver with the irrepressible shiver of pure cerebral excitement that he used to gain from plotting one audacious heist after another in his days of sky piracy.

He had known greater joys since then, of course, none more so than the day of his marriage and the moment he laid eyes on his children. These were joys that fed the soul (a component of his being Balthier had long neglected) and nourished his heart, but a man was more than heart and soul. 

A man had also a mind and a spirit and Balthier's mind was that of a pirate, ever crafty, ever twisty with schemes, and his spirit was ever the rogue, the mischievous dandy vagabond. 

'How indeed Fran, how indeed?' 

He murmured gaze drifting upwards to the silvery clouds, darkened with snow not yet shed upon the encampment, and the hazy sky to the rough walled painted spires of the Gran Kiltias' temple where the enemy huddled like cornered prey. 

Balthier felt a tickle at the back of his mind, not yet a thought, nor inkling of an idea, but the beginnings of both. His gaze came to rest upon the lofty heights wherein the Gran Kiltias main temple was just barely visible. 

'Gran Kiltias Marana is no longer prisoner of the Ascendancy.' He thought out loud. 

'This is true.' Fran confirmed watching him keenly and knowing that something like an idea was already percolating inside her partners mind. 

'And all this,' Balthier waved his hand in an airy gesture meant to incorporate all and sundry misfortune regarding the Kiltias Ascendancy and their current predicament, 'is really more a matter of the gods than it is mortal men, wouldn't you say?' 

Fran studied him thoughtfully, 'Those cloistered within the temple may argue such, they have long claimed to do the gods will.' she conceded noncommittally. 

Balthier nodded happily. His scheme gathering momentum, texture, definition and form within his mind rapidly now that the fog of muddled emotion and confused expectations (primarily his own) upon his actions had been dispersed. 

'Marquis Ondore told me that he felt the gods helped those that help themselves. I reiterated the sentiment to Ashe and promised I would seek the aid of said deity.' Balthier informed Fran in abstracted tones as he began mental calculations and considered the variables of his plan. 

'When looked at rationally this is all Faram's thought, if we assume for a moment his existence is a fact which, as you know, I have my reservations about. It seems only right and correct that Faram should attend his own mess, or at the very least his appointed representative in Ivalice should do it for him.' 

Fran arched one perfect eyebrow, 'By representative you mean Gran Kiltias Marana? You wish to seek the aid of the Kiltia?' 

For a moment Balthier indulged in a wolfish smile, a flash of white teeth resplendent with a brilliant, prideful confidence, the rogue had returned.

'I have never been one to make requests Fran. I intend to _make_ Marana help us. She is asleep most of the time so should not put up much resistance.' 

Fran twitched ever so slightly. Her enduring affection and fascination with her most treasured Hume companion was due in large part to the dichotomy within Balthier's make up. He had the heart and soul of a good and courageous man, but the mind and the spirit of a brilliant villain.

In reviving the villain she feared she had silenced the good man. She wondered briefly what this foretold for the Gran Kiltias now seemingly a pawn in Balthier's outlandish new scheme.

'Resistance?' she queried and Balthier laughed turning to face his partner with the light of a wicked, devious plan in his eyes.

'Fran, cold blooded murder may be beneath the dignity of the leading man, but the kidnapping of personages of note has long been a favourite pastime of mine. After all, it is how I met my wife.'

Fran blinked one swift, momentary gesture that expressed her surprise more eloquently than words, 'You wish to kidnap the Gran Kiltias?' 

'Hmm, yes, right now in fact.' Balthier, in his cheerful distraction, failed to see the quiver that shivered along both Fran's elegant ears. 

'To what ends?' Fran questioned.

Balthier met her eyes once more, his own dancing with a complex mix of excitement and carefully restrained rage against the man who had so hurt his wife and caused so much pain and upheaval in his life.

'Mishman Margrace has made my wife's existence a living nightmare of late.' Balthier said humourlessly, eyes hardening at the whisper of the memory of Ashe's tears, the wet patch still felt against his heart where her tears had left indelible stain. 

'I think it only fair, under the circumstances, that I return the favour. I will give him a nightmare he shall never awaken from and turn his own bloody god against him.' 

Without further ado, resolute in his new plan, Balthier turned and made his way back to the camp from the ledge. 

Fran did not immediately follow him, instead, for just a moment she glanced up at the temple of the Gran Kiltias wherein Mishman Margrace cowered in fear.

Truly, Fran surmised, there were worse fates than death to befall a Hume and she had just unleashed one such fate on the Rozzarian Emperor; the calculating fury of the Leading Man. 

Fran doubted whether the fury of the gods themselves could match the complexity and devious vengeance her partner would exact before this night was through. 

* * *

_A/N: Stay tuned for the denouement wherein Balthier perpetrates grand theft Kiltias, Marana prophesises and Ashe panics, Penelo agonizes, and Larsa shows his true colours (?) ;)_


	28. Chapter 28

**The Denouement Pt1**

_A/N: Hello everyone; I have failed. I have failed my self-imposed deadline and although the first part of this story's two chapter ending is posted on the 24__th__ March like I said the second part is going to be late...ah, well, it's not like lives are depending on it or anything...right? _

_Also to give everyone their turn in the spotlight and tie up all the plot lines the two part denouement (I like that word, it's classier than 'ending') is going to contain multiple POV's and switch between characters. ;)_

* * *

**The Encampment; outside the temple Kiltia walls**

Penelo sat huddled in furs watching Ashe sleep fitfully.

It could have been minutes or several hours since Balthier had asked her to sit with Ashe; Penelo did not know and truthfully did not care.

She held in her hands a stylus and a piece of wood she had laid across her lap with which to rest the piece of paper she now wrote upon. As she scribbled, her pen breaking through the paper in places and the ink smudging to obscure her careful penmanship, tears threatened on the precipice of her eyelids.

Discarded pieces of paper (pilfered from the Marquis Ondore's tent) lay crumpled like the decapitated heads of roses around her slumped form. Scratches of ink on the papers surface revealed themselves to be the failed attempts at previous letters.

Over and over the words _Larsa _and _sorry _secreted themselves in the creases and folds of the paper flora studding the tent's floor.

Like a burning brand against her thigh the Master Chop rested heavy as a guilty secret in her pocket, returned to her by a smugly self-satisfied Jules that very morning as she was helping to tend to the injured from the Ascendancy's attack.

'_Aight Empress, how's 'is Lordship this morning?' _

_Flinching and whirling around guiltily from her inventory of healing supplies Penelo had come face to face with the arrogant Streetear and the proffered Master Chop, the beautiful mother-of-pearl inlay glinting in the sunlight reflected off the snow. _

'_...what?...' _

_Instinctively and guiltily Penelo had grabbed for the Chop and pocketed it lest someone should see it. _

_Jules grinned at her, a flash of yellowed teeth in a perpetually dirty face, 'I said, how's 'is Lordship this mornin'. 'E was in right fine fettle yesterday, but then all's a man needs is a good rogerin' to get 'is...'_

_The slap of Penelo's hand across the Streetear's unshaven cheek was loud and immediately Penelo jerked away, cradling her hand against her chest in shock at her own actions (not so much that she had hit the horrible, obnoxious Streetear, but that she had only given him a slap, when she wanted to do much worse). _

_Jules' thick brows creased together in a scowl, 'Well that was 'ardly friendly like, an' I only come t'give yer back the Chop an' says g'bye.' He tried to sound offended but was less than affective when a large grin spread across his face._

'_You're leaving?' Penelo caught her breath. She did not know whether to cheer for joy that she was about to be free of the Streetear or whether to be worried; she decided that it was probably more prudent to be worried. _

_Still grinning Jules nodded, 'Me and Gert are 'eaded back to Archades. This peace lark's a bit dangerous for our likin', what with all the killin' an' limbs gettin' 'acked off an' being blown up an' that. Gods knows it don't get that feisty on New Years Eve in Old Archades.' _

_Jules shook his head ruefully, 'well anyhoo, be seein' you Empress.' _

_Penelo grabbed his arm before the Streetear could dissert the camp. Her fingers dug into his bicep as she held him firmly in place._

'_Hey-up, let us go, yer nails are sharp.' _

_He complained as Penelo, casting a furtive look about her for anyone who might recognise Jules and herself, dragged the whining Streetear out of earshot towards the tent being used as a munitions store. _

'_You are going back to start a rebellion aren't you? You will storm the Senate while Larsa is here and can do nothing to stop you.' she accused in a fierce whisper._

_Jules watched her with shrewd gimlet eyes winking like a carrion bird's, 'Jus' like we all planned it, Empress. Remember if 'is Lordship is 'ere when we do it then 'e can't get blamed fer bein' in on it, can 'e now; an' more particu'ly, neither can yer.' _

_Jules winked at her and Penelo resisted the desire to hit him, very hard, once more. _

'_You have this all worked out.' she whispered with sinking dread._

_Jules did not bother to deny it, 'Bloody lousy Streetear I'd be if I din't.' he pointed out reasonably._

'_An don't go gettin' all 'olier than thou, Empress. We all gets what we wants from this game; you, me, an' 'is Lordship.' _

_Penelo looked up with daggers in her eyes, 'Leave Larsa out of this.'_

_Jules snickered and gave her a mockingly elaborate Archadian bow as he detached his arm from her grip, 'Whatever yer say, Empress, whatever yer say.' _

_Without another word spoken between them Penelo watched Jules ooze away into the icy shadows like a rat escaping a sinking ship. She hoped to any god that was listening that this would be the last she ever had to do with Jules or his sister. _

In the present a large, salty tear rolled down Penelo's cheek to land on the paper in her lap, splashing against the drying ink and making it run.

She had finished her letter. She had finished her confession and now there was nothing left but to wrap the Master Chop inside the folded velum page and sneak it into Larsa's belongings without his knowledge before she made good her own escape.

Just like the Streetears; another rat scurrying away.

Before she left the tent Penelo crept closer to the sleeping Ashe. The stains of tear tracks were still clearly visible across her cheeks, the Queen's lashes clumped with them and her eyelids puffy.

'I'm sorry Ashe, really I am, but I have to go. I don't know what else to do and I've done something very bad.'

It hurt terribly to abandon Ashe when she was so low, so scared. It was like an act of treason, abandoning her own Queen, but Penelo desperately needed to run away. She needed to escape before Larsa found out what she had done in his name. She was not strong and she could not bear to see his face when he discovered her deception.

'I promise I'll come back, Ashe, when I can.'

Gently Penelo brushed a hand over Ashe's forehead, watching the other woman's brows knit together in a frown, her eyes darting wildly under her tired eyelids. Tucking a strand of the Queen's fine hair behind her ear and away from her face Penelo then stood ready to leave.

As she skirted the side of the Marquis Ondore's tent she shied away like a street thief when the entrance flap was flung open and Balthier and Fran stepped out together. It seemed almost as if Fran dragged a scowling Balthier out of the tent and away from the main encampment. Balthier's face was vengeful in the extreme.

Watching to make sure they were both gone and that no one else left the tent Penelo kept to the shadows and the narrow places between the tent awnings as she made her stealthy way towards Larsa's tent.

The Emperor's tent was guarded but the guards knew to let Penelo in whenever she wanted to enter, whether Larsa was with her or not, and they stepped aside without a word. Once this would have pleased Penelo, who had had to fight so hard for the respect she believed she was owed, but now it simply added to her wretched misery.

Quiet as a grieving ghost Penelo laid the letter and the Chop within it on Larsa's velvet pillow, brushing a kiss against the velum that she hoped he would feel when he found the letter.

Before the tears could fall, before she lost her nerve, Penelo rose from the sumptuous mounds of expensive bedding, the beaded velvet cushions brought all the way from the Imperial Palace, and hurried out into the biting gale of the encroaching night.

By morning, hopefully, she would be very far from here and Larsa would never be able to find her.

* * *

**Skulking around the perimeter of the Kiltias Temple**

It was often said that moments of extreme duress and hardship or crises of some description could prove definitive in defining a man's character.

Balthier had never liked this piece of received wisdom; he had a natural resistance to any form of definition and therefore typecasting (despite his own insistence on role play) and, of course, the methods he employed in moments of crisis may lead any passing observer to severely question his sanity.

For obvious reasons Balthier was very touching when it came to analysis of his mental state, no matter how seemingly valid it may be.

This particular moment being a case in point; it was not so much that he had found a way to slip past the sensors, both Hume, magickal and mechanical, to breach the very curtain walls of the Kiltias temple, that was the concern, so much as it was the fact that he had done so with a thirteen year old girl slung over his shoulder like a roll of carpet.

That was the sort of thing likely to condemn him in the eyes of any curious on-lookers.

All in all Balthier was beginning to wish he had put a tad more forethought into his (brilliant) somewhat off-the-hoof scheme.

Precariously balanced with his back against the edge of the cliff, the outer wall of the temple rising up high above his head completely sheer with no means of clambering up (setting aside that doing so would be nigh near impossible with his current 'load') Balthier was even beginning to question his own sanity.

The gale force wind rattling around the battlements of the fortress temple was licking over his body trying to nudge him over the precipice and numbing his extremities.

Gran Kiltias Marana was not assisting in any meaningful way; she had not even deigned to regain consciousness since he had slipped into her tent and snatched her from her bed right under the noses of her lacklustre attendants (with the aid of a sleeping draught added, discretely, to said attendants bedtime hippocras).

_Really, you would think they would have more care for a thirteen year old child. Of course these are the same people who decided a thirteen year old narcoleptic Helgas was an appropriate spiritual leader, so one can hardly be surprised by their lack of due care, can one? _

Balthier's plan, in so far as this debacle could be deemed a 'plan', depended on being able to turn Marana's peculiar gift for sleep and dreams to his own ends, but it was proving remarkably difficult to wake the girl at all let alone persuade her to abuse her powers for a greater good (that good being his own).

Growing impatient and also wondering if he would even be able to carry her much longer in the biting, driving cold, Balthier rather unceremoniously deposited the gangly limbed Helgas girl onto the thick quilt of snow, propping her back against the solid curtain wall.

'You know, your holiness, one would think you would be somewhat more proactively involved in your own kidnapping. And I should tell you now I do not believe for a moment you are as insensate as you claim.'

Ordinarily Balthier might have felt foolish addressing (berating, one might say) an unconscious adolescent, however Balthier was not the sort to be easily chastened, especially as the night was drawing on and he wanted this business over, one way or another, before first light.

Tapping his foot in the thick, ice glazed snow mounding around the curtain wall, the mountain drop at his back and the night sky glittering with cold stars, Balthier stared down at the Gran Kiltias as if he could will her awake.

When she refused to acquiesce to his silent but emphatic prompting to look lively and participate in making her own kidnapping easier on her kidnapper Balthier paused to consider the strange child-woman before him.

He had never had any very great dealings with Helgas in his day to day life.

A race that was almost as retiring as the Viera and given to ecclesiastical callings (and Balthier had never been a pious man) he knew relatively little about the race, except that they were all tall, thin, with long angled faces, velum weathered skin and had a propensity towards precognition and foresightedness that made them popular with the Kiltias religion.

Marana, from what he could gather from her prone and slumberous form, conformed to the expectations of her race, being, primarily, asleep, tall for a girl of her years, almost uncomfortably thin and bony (her rib cage alone had likely bruised his shoulder as he carried her and her numerous protruding bones had jabbed at him painfully) and with a chin long and sharp enough to sharpen a dagger on.

Balthier hunkered down to squat before the girl, 'Look, I appreciate that you are not accustomed to men drugging your chaperones and carrying you up mountains in the dead of night, but really, the sooner you wake up and assist me the sooner we can both be through with this nonsense.'

Marana did not so much as twitch. Her head lolling on her neck tucked against her bony chest, her bright and garish ecumenical robes in green and blue looking somewhat the worse for wear from days spent the captive guest of her unwanted houseguest Mishman Margrace she remained blissfully oblivious to all.

Balthier swore softly to himself and considered giving this whole scheme up as a bad job and taking the child back to the encampment before her entourage awoke and started screaming blue, bloody murder.

It was just as he reached for the girl intent on slinging her over his shoulder again (or perhaps, feeling guilty, carrying her more properly in his arms) that the voice, clear and girlish, chimed in his mind like a ringing bell.

_I am dreaming a little dream of dreaming. I am dreaming a little dream of dreaming that the men within my walls dream too. Together we dream, all the same, all together, dreaming our dreams we do. _

Startled beyond all measure Balthier lost his balance and fell backwards off his feet and onto his backside.

Instantly his rear end sank into a foot of crisp snow and icy wet slush seeped through the leather of his travelling trousers right through his pores to _truly_ freeze his 'extremities'.

Cursing loudly enough to summon a wandering guardsman Balther hauled himself upright and glowered down on the girl still seemingly lifeless and inert sleeping against the curtain wall.

'You bloody did that on purpose, you little minx.' he muttered unkindly, forgetting, in his sodden and potentially frostbitten ire, that he was addressing the spiritual leader of Ivalice's most powerful religion and a mere girl of thirteen.

To his grave consternation a sharp toothed grin scythed across the sleeping girls face even though she did not so much as quiver an eyelash towards awaking. There was nothing so unsettling as talking to a sleeping person who spoke back without opening her mouth.

_I am dreaming a dream Ffamran mid Bunansa. I was dreaming that you would come a-sneaking through the night to take me from my litter and bare me on thy back. I did dream that we rode through snow and ice under distant star fire towards my stone citadel and thus I dream that it is so and here we are._

The tinkling of silent laughter, merry as the ring of fine crystal glass, rattled through his mind and he bit the inside of his lip to stop himself from shaking his head in a futile attempt to shake his mind free of her voice.

Balthier shivered and immediately pretended, in the no longer private confines of his own mind, that it was the cold wind and the soggy seat of his trousers that made his flesh creep and not the innocent ringing sweetness of Marana's voice resounding in his head.

_I am dreaming now that men do come, dreaming in this dream of mine, a-stumbling through their sleeping minds to open the lych gate and let the sneaking Ffamran through._

Balthier barely had time to react to the words before he heard the heavy, laboriously creaking mechanism of the lych gate at the back of the temple, mere feet from their current location, being opened and the portcullis drawn up.

Balthier readied his rifle, dropping into a low crouch and waiting for a horde of red garbed Ascendancy soldiers to spill out from the opened gates, but none came.

After a few agonised and chilled moments' hesitation Balthier crept as silently as he could through the snow towards the gate, pressing his back against the curtain wall and peering, swiftly and nervously, around the corner and through the gateway.

'Well, bugger me.'

The curse was out and lost in the frigid air, as, forgetting his previous anxiety, Balthier walked through the gate, rifle raised and pointed at the nearest snoring guard, laying spread eagled over the cobbles of the gateway.

Another insensate man, draped in the crimson Ascendancy colours, was sprawled across the large wheel mechanism that raised the portcullis. For a moment Balthier could only stand and stare then, belatedly, he remembered Marana who he had simple abandoned in the snow and icy air.

Turning on his heel to retrieve the Gran Kiltias Balthier almost died of fright, rifle swinging around and up towards the figure that appeared, thin and spectral as a dream, long cream of wheat coloured hair flowing around her, in the open gateway.

Clearly Marana had decided to awaken and pick herself up from the snow.

'Good gods, girl, I could have shot you.'

Deliberately and carefully Balthier pulled his half numbed finger from where it had all but finished squeezing down on the trigger of his rifle and let the weapon drop to his shoulder, barrel pointed harmlessly upwards.

Marana awarded him another sharp, pointed smile that made her narrow, sharp boned face seem almost predatory.

'Then I would dream evermore ne'er to waken and would not that be a grand token of thy gratitude?'

Her voice aloud was disturbingly similar to the sweet, lilting music of her mental voice and Balthier watched her approach through narrowed eyes.

Pride refused to allow him to admit it, but he was half afraid of this strange somnambulant priestess who had the power to compel the will of men through their dreams.

Balthier was almost weak with relief that he slept but four or five hours a night and never, ever dreamed. Else he might have felt it prudent to visit a Kiltia offertory and lay down a hefty down payment against future visits from Marana in his slumber.

Quite suddenly as she passed by him towards the courtyard and the rickety walled climbing pathway up to the mountain summit and the temple, Marana turned and flashed another sharp toothed grin his way, incongruous and unnerving in her thin, girlish face.

'One day Ffamran Mid Bunansa you will come a-climbing to my sanctum and you will go down on worn knees, pride forgotten, to beg me for dreams that you possess not. I have dreamed it so. I have seen it happen. I have dreamt often of your woes, son of science, man with two names, man with many faces.'

For one frozen, fraught, moment between one second and the next Balthier and Marana stared at each other. Then, pointedly, Balthier shook his head, rolled his shoulders and popped his knuckles before turning to lead the way up towards the temple.

'I don't beg.' he muttered under his breath, unable to keep his peace.

Behind his back the Helgas smiled, 'Not yet but ere do men change as and with the winds of time.'

* * *

**The Encampment**

Ashe awoke with a start not sure what had so startled her into wakefulness. For a moment all she could do was look about her in confusion, then with crashing clarity and speed, reality came to her once more.

_Sweet merciful gods what have I done?_

Scrambling free of the furs and bedding Ashe struggled into her boots and outerwear bursting from her tent in a state of ready panic. She looked about her but could see no sign of anyone she knew in the gathering gloom of the evening.

_Please, please, surely he cannot have gone so soon?_

Ashe pushed her way through the gormless throngs of people who wished to kiss her hand or say something to the great Dynast Queen heedlessly, making for her uncle's tent with great haste.

She was almost to the tent when the alarm sounded. A Bur-Omisace Kiltias priestess staggered from the tent wherein the Gran Kiltias Marana was ensconced, crying and wailing and attracting a great deal of attention.

'Help us, help us. Her Grace Marana is taken. She is gone. Gone from her bed and taken from us.'

Instinctively Ashe pressed into the shadows of the tents and the cliff wall, hidden in a dense and narrow space festooned with tent pegs and ropes that few would be so foolhardy as to wander into, or at least she hoped it would be so.

Within a few moments of the Kiltias wailings uncle Halim, Basch and Larsa emerged from the central tent and quickly approached the hysterical woman who appeared unsteady on her feet as if intoxicated.

'Good sister what is the meaning of this?' her uncle inquired as Ashe inched closer, while still hiding in the shadows, to hear.

'The Gran Kiltias, her Grace Marana, is gone. Her bed is empty and we have all been foully drugged. Faram save us all if aught should befall her Grace.' The woman wept collapsing to her knees.

'Could it have been the Ascendancy?' Ashe heard Larsa ask and she saw Basch's grave, leonine head shake in the negative.

'It seems unlikely; why come for just the Gran Kiltias whom they showed no great interest in when they had her before? No I fear another may be responsible for her disappearance if she has truly disappeared at all.'

Chomping down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood Ashe stumbled back into the furthest darkness of the tents. She tripped over tent ropes as she did so and fell heavily into the rough face of the cliff.

_Balthier...Balthier where are you and what have you done now?_

'What was that?' Larsa, nearest to the gap between tents where Ashe hid, turned to face the darkened opening. 'I thought I heard someone say something, or some manner of movement, from within the shadows.'

Both Basch and Larsa stepped forward and despite the fact they were both her allies and her friends, Ashe leapt over the thicket of tent ropes and, shoulder scraping against the cliff 

face, ran behind the tents pitched up against the mountain side as if she was guilty of something herself.

An appropriate thought as she rather thought she was guilty. Guilty of a moment of terrible, unforgiveable weakness, that had led, nay,_ forced,_ Balthier into an act of almost suicidal recklessness and stupidity.

There was no doubt in her mind, though she could not even begin to fathom the reason why, that Balthier had taken Marana.

It was the sort of inexplicably dangerous thing the leading man did.

She had married the man. She had some comprehension of the vagaries and imponderables of his mind. This was a man who had crashed a Sky Fortress not once but twice and thought nothing of risking life and limb at the very drop of a hat.

Or, more accurately, the drop, or several drops, of a foolish, selfish woman's tears. Her own tears shed earlier tonight when she rather thought she had run quite mad.

Free of the cliff face and the tangled hemp undergrowth of tent ropes Ashe sprinted towards her own tent to retrieve the Sword of Kings, the Treaty Blade, and whatever else she might need to rescue her husband from his own folly; a folly she had incited.

It was with such focus of intent and mind that she did not even see Fran until she collided with the taller woman at the entrance to her tent.

'Ommmphf!'

Despite Fran's lithe and willowy appearance the Viera did not so much as totter on her high heeled feet against the impact; Ashe was not so fortunate.

Ricocheting off Fran Ashe fell backwards and landed heavily enough on her rear that she bounced twice before coming to an undignified stop in a crumpled heap in the snow.

'Highness,' Fran quirked an eyebrow and offered one long clawed hand to help the winded Ashe to her feet. Whereas Balthier made the honorific sound slyly endearing on Fran's tongue the title lacked either any particularly warmth or high accord.

Ashe ignored the offered hand and dragged herself to her feet brushing the snow from her clothes awkwardly. 'Fran...I...'

She hesitated unsure how to proceed as was so often the case when she spoke with her husband's partner.

It was not that Ashe held any animus towards 'the other woman' in Balthier's life or that Fran felt any towards her (the thought itself was ludicrous when one considered Fran's character) but nevertheless Ashe always felt obscurely self-conscious in Fran's presence.

'You are in great haste, your highness?' Fran queried coolly studying Ashe keenly with her distant regard.

'Fran I fear Balthier is, as we speak, doing something unutterably foolish and I must stop him.'

Ashe had never been one for beating around the proverbial bush when making conversation and (despite the tendency of her chosen partner to wax lyrical to great extent over nothing) Fran was also a woman who appreciated brevity.

The Viera absorbed this outburst in silence. She remained standing in front of the entrance to the tent but Ashe would no sooner attempt to push past Fran as she would attempt to shove the Kerwon mountains' out of the way. The Viera's stately, calm and collected presence filled the empty space all around them like an invisible barrier.

Ashe gnawed on her lip, 'Fran?'

The Viera cocked her head to the side inquiringly, 'Yes?'

Ashe opened her mouth ready to pose her question_...Did you use to sleep with my husband and if you did, why and when did you stop?_

Ashe's jaws clicked together audibly as she bit down on her tongue to stop herself from asking _that_ question. The question that had burned a hole through her mind every time she saw Balthier and Fran together, heads almost touching as they communicated in their own unique way that was almost completely devoid of words.

_Does he love you more than he loves me? Will he ever share with me the secrets of his past that you seem to know, or at least I think you do, and will there ever come a time when I can look you in the eye and not feel as though I have stolen him from you? _

'Fran, do you know where Balthier is?' Ashe eventually asked the only question that was really pertinent and the only one she was likely to receive an answer for.

'Not in fact, but I know where his intentions lead.' Fran answered as Ashe had expected, a direct and literal response to her question that nevertheless gave very little away.

Ashe nodded her head still nibbling on her chapped lips, 'Fran I am afraid that Balthier is headed for a confrontation with Mishman Margrace, perhaps because he thinks it is as I wish it.'

Fran studied Ashe intently, shifting her weight from one long leg to the other and folding her arms across her chest.

'And you do not wish this?' she enquired cold as falling snow.

'By the gods Fran, no.' Ashe shook her head vigorously unsettling the falling snow that settled in her hair.

'I...I was upset and spoke out of turn, half out of my mind and my wits as well. Fran you must believe me, I would never ask, or expect, him to do such a thing for me.'

Fran's stance, her question and her tone confirmed for Ashe her worst fears. Confirmed that Balthier (mad, loyal, loving fool that he was) had gone alone to face the entire Ascendancy force, either to die trying to avenge her and the wrongs perpetrated against both the two of them and their children, or worse, to succeed in an act of cold blooded murder not even his vaulted charm and silver tongue could save him from.

For a moment Fran simply fixed her berry red eyes on Ashe as if she could divine the very fabric of her soul, then with one swift perfunctory nod of the head Fran stepped aside and allowed Ashe to enter the tent.

'We must hurry; Balthier is never in so much haste as when he is in haste to be foolish.'

* * *

**An antechamber of the Bur-Omisace Temple**

'Hurry, the moon's zenith is surpassed and the sleepers journey is ne'er so deep nor treacherous as it is at present. Tarry too long and the moment you seek shall be lost.'

Marana's warning was barely heeded by Balthier as he reeled away from one hard, sharp right hook to the jaw delivered by a decidedly irate Ascendancy soldier who had, within a blinking of an eye, withdrawn twin scimitar's from his back sheath.

'I am a trifle preoccupied at the moment, your grace.'

Balthier gritted out as he ducked under one slicing, pincer-like swing of the twin swords and found himself backed up against a bust of the late Gran Kiltias Anastasis, which toppled from its plinth and shattered noisily on the ground.

Parrying a decapitating slice with the barrel of his gun Balthier head butted the murderous Rozzarian priest who staggered back allowing Balthier a mere second to catch his breath; nevertheless he barely had time to rue the painful ringing in his skull from his encounter with the hard-headed fanatic before he was forced to duck and roll to avoid instant incineration by Firaga.

'I thought you said you had rendered all the Ascendancy soldiers asleep?' Balthier called to Marana as he jumped and dodged and rolled about in a display of impromptu acrobatics only possible when one is fighting for one's life.

Marana, crouched behind the large alter at the head of the antechamber Balthier had had the misfortune to wander into only to discover it occupied by two very alert and conscious Ascendancy soldiers, shrugged her bony shoulders.

'I can affect only those who journey into dreams, be they waking or sleeping, those who neither sleep nor dream are beyond my powers; much as you are Ffamran Mid Bunansa.'

'Bloody magick wielding, insomniac zealots.'

Balthier growled when he was finally able to regain his feet, singed and lightly char-grilled from numerous Firaga related near misses, and came up swinging with a foot-long shard of shattered stain glass from the window wrapped in fabric torn from his own sleeve.

_Careful!_

The shriek in his mind caused him to duck down involuntarily, which was fortuitous as the bolt of deadly synapse frying Thundaga flung from the hands of the Ascendancy guard sneaking up behind him, sailed over his head to strike and kill the scimitar wielding soldier coming up in front of him.

Never one to look a gift Chocobo in the mouth Balthier spun on his heels, still crouched low, and launched himself, as a serpent would, with the jagged point of the glass shard extended, to bury the makeshift blade into the throat of the (up until this moment) surviving guard.

Breathing hard Balthier assessed the damage, both to his own person and to the chamber.

'Bloody hell, this shirt is ruined.' he muttered irritably tugging on the charred cuff of his remaining sleeve and the tattered strips of his other sleeve.

The antechamber, decorated in gold gilt and turquoise with elaborate allegorical friezes representing various famous scenes from the book of Kiltia, was not much better. Balthier almost tripped over a jewel studded reliquary on his way to retrieve the once again near comatose Marana and resume his search for Mishman.

'I dare say they have all fled, alerted by the racket.' He muttered darkly casting a cursory eye over the adolescent Gran Kiltias before hefting her into his arms.

_Not so. _

Balthier had to swiftly re-affirm his grip on the sleeping girl as her mental voice, clear as day, rang in his mind. Balthier gritted his teeth against the intrusion and started out of the chamber Marana draped in his arms as if he would make of her a grand sacrifice.

_I am to you a good friend for though they would rise and shake from their heads the ways of dreams verily do I lead our foes ever deeper into the winds of mind and the whirlwind of their secret thoughts._

'Hmm, well, keep up the good work.' Balthier muttered too unnerved by the presence in his thoughts to muster much praise.

* * *

**The Encampment; Larsa's tent**

_Dear Larsa,_

_I am so very, very sorry. I wish I could turn back time and make everything the way it was, when things were simple and we were such good friends. _

_I don't know how to tell you, I don't know what to tell you, Larsa. I can't even write it down._

_I thought I was helping and I wanted to help. I wanted to __do__ something to make things better so badly. I didn't think, I didn't stop to think, and I wish I had. I was warned. I was warned not to lose my head and get in too deeply but I was so full of pride and I thought I could cope and now I can't and I've made such a mess of things._

_Oh, Larsa, I have to go. I have to leave you and I don't want too but I must. I'm so sorry._

_You must believe me when I tell you that I really _do_ love you. _

_Yours always,_

_Penelo._

Larsa stroked a finger gently over a spot on the page where a tear had caused the ink to leak and spread in a starburst of imprinted misery across the creased velum.

Looking up from the letter almost unreadable and screaming pain and sadness from every pen stroke that had cut too deeply into the paper, Larsa looked at the Master Chop resting innocuously on his pillow.

Quietly and with the controlled motions of one accustomed from a young age to controlling and suppressing any and all outward signs of emotion Larsa stood up and carefully folded the letter before placing into his inner breast pocket.

Bending down he retrieved the Master Chop from the pillow and returned it to the keychain where it should not have come away had it not been for a faulty link in the chain he had quite deliberately not had replaced.

_Oh, Penelo, dearest had you but come to me. Now you are gone who knows where and are facing untold dangers. _

It would be no easy matter to simply leave the camp and go in search of her either. Not only had the Gran Kiltias disappeared from her bed as if by magick but so too had Ashe, Fran and Balthier all, separately or together, vanished. As one of the few leaders left in this encampment of some twelve thousand souls Larsa could not leave.

However that did not mean he was helpless. He might not be able to leave in person to find Penelo and assure her that all was well, but he could impel another to do so for him and he knew exactly whom to chose for such a task.

The encampment was all astir that the Lady Ashe, her husband, and the her Grace Marana were all missing and people of all races milled about with grim pale faces and worried shifting gazes.

Though a murmur ran through the anxious throng to see him pass, few people thought to meet the kindly gaze of the Archadian Emperor, through no fault of Larsa's own it would be a very long time before most people could view Archadia as anything other than a possible threat.

Eventually Larsa located the two skulking figures he had hoped to find.

The duo of sister and brother had been apprehended by the Bhujerban patrol trying to flee the encampment earlier that day (Larsa, when he had been presented with the pair, had wondered what had happened to the fabled Streetear shrewdness that the two had attempted to escape in broad daylight).

Gertrude greeted him first ducking into an awkward curtsey while Julian quickly discarded the burning butt of the cigarillo he had been miserably drawing from as they remained under guard by one of the Archadian supply tents.

'Yer Lordship.' The siblings said in unison.

'She is gone. She has left, sometime in the early evening.' Larsa said swiftly and perfunctorily. 'I cannot leave the encampment at this time so I charge you with finding her, as I have no doubt that you are in some way responsible for her sudden departure.'

Had Penelo been present to hear Larsa speak now she would barely have known him; gone was the compassionate, patient and polite young man who could make her swoon, and in his place stood the Archadian Emperor, who despite his youth, commanded the entire Archadian military and soon, with the aid of these Streetears and the kindly Dr Ned, would have the means to control the Senate as well.

Jules rubbed at his stubbled jaw meditatively, 'Well, t'be fair, yer Lordship, I think her inner turmoil on account of her moral anxieties vis-a-vis her recent brushes with the dirtier end of politics might have something to do with the reason our gel Penelo 'as hotfooted it, as it were.'

Larsa narrowed his eyes at the Streetear and Jules swiftly cleared his throat and amended his previous statement. 'Er, not that yer Lordship knows anything about any o'that, o'course.'

Larsa sighed and turned his eyes from the brother to the sister, the secret agent hidden in his own Palace that Larsa had always known about even though no one else did.

'And how is that other business going? Is Dr Ned ready?'

Gertrude nodded carefully, 'He is yer Lordship. By the time yer 'ome in Archades it'll all be over an' cus it is the law of the land yer'll 'ave no choice, though it grieve yer to be seen to be pandering t'mob rule, but t'ratify Dr Ned's elevation t'Senate.'

Larsa nodded distractedly, rubbing his hands together against the cold, 'I am more worried for Penelo. You assured me she volunteered to help in this endeavour. I am beginning to seriously question the wisdom of this whole endeavour. I have used her most cruelly and that was never my intent.'

The two Streetears, sensing that their moment of triumph and the political aspirations of a whole generation of Vulgars, was in jeopardy, shared a worried look.

'N-no, yer Lordship; I am sure that Miss Penelo is fine. She's a sensible lass, fer all that she wears her heart on her sleeve, she needs some time to think things through then she come back, yer'll see.'

Gertrude assured Larsa who looked up with the hopeful eyes of a boy, 'I hope you are right. I had merely wished to see if Penelo could survive in the political climate of Archades, if she shared my desire for reform and was prepared to act on it, but I fear I have behaved wrongly with all this subterfuge.'

'Nah, yer Lordship,' Jules contradicted his Emperor, the man who had commanded him to entice Penelo into the Senate scheme from the very beginning, 'mark me words ol' Penny will cry fer a bit an' feel all guilty like cus she feels she done wrong but once she sees that alls well that ends well in Archades she'll be back an' yer can marry yer bonny lass an' live 'appily ever after.'

Larsa frowned hard at the falsely confident Streetear, 'It will be a relationship based on deceit and double-dealing.' He pointed out, his words heavy with self-recrimination.

Gertrude smiled ingratiatingly, 'Ah, yer Lordship, the best relationships always are; nobody wants t'know the truth 'bout their lover, they just wants to see what they wants to see an' as long as one don't go tellin' the other whats they don't want to hear everyone is 'appy.'

Larsa frowned doubtfully, 'That is a very cynical view of how a marriage works.' He pointed out cautiously but just a little hopefully.

Jules grinned, 'Not cynical, yer Lordship, _pragmatic_, just like yer are.'

* * *

_A/N: Next up the finale...what happens when Balthier comes face to face with Mishman Margrace; will Ashe and Fran arrive in time to stop bloodshed and what is Marana's true intent? Will Penelo be found or will Larsa find out the hard way that manipulating people only leads to pain? _


	29. Chapter 29

**Denouement Pt2**

_A/N: I apologise in advance for the sheer length of this chapter….there was a lot to get through! _

_Also I know I have said this many times before but I would like to repeat myself and say an enormous thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed not just this story but its two predecessors as well. _

_While as I appreciate the in put and wonderfully supportive and immensely flattering feedback I have received from __everyone__ I would like to dedicate this story especially to Zaz9-Zaa0 (who reviews so consistently and with so much enthusiasm) to Sapereaude13 (without whom this whole trilogy would not exist as anything other than a disregarded one-shot) and to Cable Fraga (who said she would marry me if she wasn't already married – the first and only proposal I've ever had!)_

_And I would also like to make honorary mention to Navaratoiel who kept trying to virtually throttle me to death! ;0_

_P.S gold stars to whoever can spot the less than subtle nod to Shakespeare's Macbeth!_

* * *

**The Temple of Mount Bur-Omisace; main audience chamber**

Mishman Margrace had always been a wasteful person. Father had always said so; Father who owned twenty six palaces for his own use and a further nineteen for his wife and his many mistresses.

Father said that a man could only appreciate his wealth if he knew what it was to be without it. Mishman, one of few legitimate children of Iqballa the Great, had never known what it was to be anything but the son of an emperor with all Ivalice at his feet.

Still this moment was one of exquisite, unusual, value that demanded a slow and delicious savouring.

Ensconced in the chair of the Gran Kiltias, his palms caressing the worn gold hand-rests and fingering the jewels worked into the fabulous chair, Mishman awaited the opening of the chamber doors and with a benevolent wave of one indolent hand waved in his 'guests'.

The Archadian Emperor, that wide eyed beardless youth, looked pale and wane as he walked forward to the foot of the dais his metal clad protector Gabranth at his side.

Mishman could feel the smile of pure triumph spreading across his face as, with impeccable timing, his wife Hepzibah stepped into the chamber from an adjoining corridor and stepped up to his side.

Dressed in a white gown of understated elegance with her long, wavy dark hair spilling down her back and her dark, wide set almond eyes blank she looked like a Porcelain doll; lovely and empty.

'Emperor Margrace.' Larsa Solidor's voice did not waver nor tremble for all that he was barely more than a whelp not fit to lick the boots of his elders, let alone address Mishman with barely concealed hatred.

Mishman noted the redness of his eyes and the tightness of the skin drawn across his face as the tell-tale signs of grief still raw upon his visage. With spectacular sadistic timing Hepzibah began to play with the staff he had had made for her.

The six pointed star design, the holy symbol of Faram, had been wrought from the melted down steal of the Dynast relics, taken from the Dynast Queen's cold dead hands.

Mishman could tell by the way that the Archadian cur's eyes flickered to Hepzibah and the staff that he knew precisely how she came by the gift.

'Emperor Solidor.'

Mishman remembered that his father would always make his guests, allies and enemies alike await a response to a greeting simply to demonstrate that any who came before the Emperor of Rozzaria was, and always would be, a supplicant begging an audience.

'You have come to sue for peace?' Mishman purred, 'You would salvage your worthless soul now your little heretic Queen is dead and her issue wiped from the face of Ivalice.'

Larsa Solidor remained still and quiet and Mishman felt something akin to respect for the little brat's fortitude, however he did gain satisfaction from the visible discomfort of his Protector.

'A good and noble woman is dead and her children slain.' Larsa Solidor said solemnly, spearing a glance towards Hepzibah who gazed back at him with vacant eyed placidity, 'Peace is an impossibility. I simply seek to prevent further bloodshed and carnage.'

The Archadian met Mishman's eyes, 'Mark my words, sir, Archadia has the means to crush Rozzaria. You have destroyed your countries infrastructure, crushed her economy and enslaved your own people. You would be utterly defeated in a war with the Archadia make no mistake on that.'

Mishman pursed his lips, unable to control his emotional reaction (father had never had much use for his brash and impulsive youngest legitimate son, instead he had spent years training Al-Cid in the intricacies of diplomacy).

'You speak of mortal might.'

Mishman was almost as surprised as his Solidor enemy and his helmeted helpmeet when Hepzibah spoke.

'Behind my lord-Emperor Faram himself stands, ready to lend his strength to our crusade. No mortal weapon can stand against the gods.'

As always Hepzibah's voice was inflectionless and colourless. She spoke without feeling or energy. His pretty, little doll was only ever infused with passion when acting as the 'gods instrument' she was something of a damp squib in bed too.

Still, without her he would never have thrown down his brother and made himself the conqueror of all Ivalice.

Mishman was about to say something to remind the Solidor infant of his place; to remind him that Mishman was powerful and the victor, that he now controlled Dalmasca and the trading routes from the west to the east of Ivalice that made the miserable desert principality so valuable. That he also held the seat of the Kiltia religion in his sway; however he was halted by the presence of another in the chamber.

Mishman had not seen the man enter and his presence confused him. The man was tall and lean, extravagantly dressed in a tight fitted pair of dark leather hide travelling trousers, an ostentatious vest drowned in green and gold embroidery over a luminous white shirt with a high collar.

The man, lounging against one of the pillars lining the outer edges of the chamber gave Mishman an ironic nod of greeting. Mishman noted the spark of light from the ear-ring that hung from the man's torn right ear.

Mishman frowned, the man seemed familiar to him but he could not quite fathom why. Still the man had not introduced himself as befit the address of the new Emperor of all Ivalice and Mishman opened his mouth the demand an explanation.

_It had been swift. The cannon ball had blasted through the side of the wagon and reduced it to tinder wood in an instance. She had not suffered. She had not suffered, little Alfayna, she had simply died; died without even having the opportunity to live. Died hiding under a pile of dirty clothing in a wagon as men and women fought and slaughtered each other all around her._

_What was suffering to that? Mishman had almost laughed as he dug the little body out from the litter of wood shards, struggling with the half wagon wheel that had all but crushed her into the oil slicked sands. _

_It was not possible to bury the dead in the desert. Scavengers would sniff out the blood and dig up the bodies. So they built a huge bonfire and stacked the bodies upon the kindling. He watched her burn and thought to use his handkerchief against the stench until he remembered that she still had it. _

Mishman cried out as the vision – or memory – faded. He lurched forward in his throne, mouth dry and stomach roiling. His eyes sought out the smirking man in the shadows but found no one there.

Mishman shivered. It had been so real; so very vividly real, the stink of burning flesh. The image of the little hand gripping a bracelet and piece of ragged cotton that meant nothing to him, and yet, the strange imagery dredged from the ether to infect his mind, evoked in him feelings whose genesis he did not understand.

Feelings of grief, sorrow and an almost overwhelming guilt; feelings not native to his being.

'Husband, are you well?'

Mishman jerked away like a wounded animal when Hepzibah touched his shoulder. He stared at her mutely before launching himself from his throne to round upon the quiet Archadian Emperor and his protector.

'What manner of foul sorcery is this? What vile Archadian trickery do you invoke on me?'

_Uma….Uma…..Uma……_

_A small girl, with dark hair and huge dark eyes that took up more room in her face than any other feature, cried for her mother. Her cheeks were splotchy with tears and her nose was running freely. With one sniff the string of mucus retracted up her nasal passage only to ooze back down over her trembling lips once more. _

_Uma…..Uma…Uma _

'Enough of this!' Mishman descended the dais and stalked towards the farthest reaches of the audience chamber, sword drawn, advancing on the languid figure of the strange man who watched him coming while brushing imaginary lint from his sleeves.

'You will die for this sorcery you impudent cur.'

Mishman thrust forward with his sword, throwing all his weight behind the blow. He cried out, more in surprise than pain, as his sword scraped against the hard and immovable presence of a pillar, the clashing impact jarring up his wrist.

The man was simply gone, as if he had never been. Mishman spun around with a roar of fury and found the man leaning rakishly against his throne, the chair of the Gran Kiltias, one arm stretched across its carven back.

'Who are you, what manner of man can disappear and re-appear at will?'

Mishman whispered as he raised the sword defensively, oblivious to his wife's pleading with him that he fought with thin air, or the bright, alert, watchful eyes of the Solidor brat and his Judge. His attention was consumed and absorbed completely by the man with the smirk.

'No manner of man at all, your Excellency, merely a figment of your imagination.'

The man demurred in the hated accent of the Arcahdian scum; silky and condescending.

The man smiled at Mishman coldly, 'You killed my wife. I intend to make your every moment a living nightmare.'

Then at that moment the man blinked out of existence, leaving Mishman railing like a madman and striking his own throne with his sword until his own priest-soldiers, ordered by his wife, pulled him away and out of the chamber.

Mishman could feel the eyes of the Solidor cur on him as he left the chamber, but more particularly he could feel the sardonic eyes of the man-that-was-not-there, burning into him from the neverwhere.

* * *

**The slopes of Mount Bur-Omisace**

Ashe's gold gilt metal greaves and boots were exceptionally heavy.

It had never once been voiced five years ago during her mission to restore her Kingdom, not even by Vaan who had the tendency then (which had only slightly abated now he was older) to verbalise every thought that germinated in his mind, but Ashe imagined that they all must have pondered why she wore such heavy and elaborate leg argumentation.

Especially as she wore such a very slight skirt, and yes Ashe had known all about the sly commentary regarding her choice of attire made by many of her companions of the male persuasion (ironically Basch had been the only one to actually broach the subject with her and even then he had been so obsessively deferential that she had barely understood what he meant).

Of course anyone who might have pondered the sense behind her leg ware, had they been present on the gale lashed slopes ascending Mount Bur Omisace, would have found the reason palpably obvious when Ashe's metal booted toe connected with the flank of one half-staved and salivating wolf and sent the unfortunate creature rolling, in a ball of agony, down the slope like an animate snowball.

As to the skirt, well the question was its own master, as she had told Basch much to his dismay during that previously recalled deferential conversation.

Balthier, when had queried the garish skirt much later, response had been to burst out laughing, much to the dismay of the visiting troupe of dramatic players who had been enacting, for the Queen and her new husband's pleasure, a particularly harrowing (though sadly quite scintillatingly dull) re-enactment of the storming of Nalbina.

The diplomatic fallout of Balthier's unfortunate mirth had been well worth it for the delight Ashe had received in seeing Balthier startled out of his usual decorum and beset with uncontrollable belly laughs.

Ashe shook her head to clear it from pointless memories and turned back to the task of decimating the wolf pack encircling her.

'I do not have time for bloody wolves.'

She snarled, appropriating Balthier's favourite curse, as she avoided the jaws of another rapid wolf and stabbed the creature through the eye with her dagger, not deigning to stain the blade of the Sword of Kings with such paltry fare.

Behind her Fran skewered a charging wolf with an arrow loosed from her monstrous bow before landing her own, equally fearsome kick to the last member of the ill-fortuned pack that had accosted the two on their ascent.

Fran joined her at the mouth to the Silverfloe fjord. Both women had confirmed that Balthier had likely gone down through the Silverfloe to ascend to the back of the temple and so had followed in his metaphoric footsteps.

Ashe gnawed at her bottom lip and looked up at the large, pregnant silvered moon rising through the clear, rich blue-black sky.

'Tell me Fran, what business did he have abducting the Gran Kiltias and why take her with him to face Mishman?'

Shaking her long fall of liquid moonlight hair behind her back Fran raised one, seemingly caustic eyebrow at her, 'You believe that is his purpose?'

Ashe did not know if Fran's evasive answers, which posed questions and gave nothing away, were simply in keeping with Fran's natural tendency to be elusive and hoard information like the treasure it was, or if she was protecting her partner's secrets, or even, perhaps, that the Viera was simply displeased with Ashe.

Whatever the reason may be Ashe was in no mood for it.

'Fran I do not _know_ his purpose. I have never understood why he does as he does. I have simply learned to accept what he will tell me and what few facets of insight I can glean from his actions and to be content with that.'

Ashe immediately bit down savagely on her bottom lip as she realised just how much of her lingering insecurity regarding Balthier's secrets and Fran's far greater understanding of the father of her children than she would ever wish to tell.

The Viera regarded her curiously. The moonlight that left Ashe blanched and bone white, revealing the deep shadows of exhaustion around her bloodshot eyes, painted Fran's cinnamon skin in a silver glow. Ashe had never loathed her lack of stature so much as she did while standing before the tall, beautifully proportioned, Viera.

For a long moment the two women regarded each other for one long, long moment that could not be defined so much by the passing of time as it was by the weight of things unspoken between them.

'Purpose you say?' Fran cocked her head to the side, resting one hand against her hip.

Ashe did not reply, struck mute by the crushing weight of her very plebeian jealousies.

'You are the purpose.' Fran said after studying Ashe quietly. 'You are not the all and the everything; you are not the will and the reason but you are the purpose. Is that not enough?'

Ashe opened her mouth to speak and found that the icy wind whipping up a blinding spray of snow stole her voice. Her mind was frozen into a blank state. Fran, as implacable, yet strangely mutable as time itself, waited patiently for Ashe's reply.

Ashe straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin, checking the hang of her sword in its scabbard. 'We must hurry. Balthier might have reduced the whole temple to burning rubble before we can stop him at this rate.'

Fran simply nodded and set off ahead, her longer strides and keener senses divining for them a path in hot pursuit.

Ashe hurried in the Viera's wake, forced to trot to keep up with the other woman's brisk pace. Yet for the first time, she felt a lessening of the tight, knotted ball of guilty jealousy that had lodged in her chest from the moment, sometime between Giruvegan and Bahamut, when she had realised that she might be in love with Balthier.

For the first time Ashe realised that she didn't need to know all Balthier's secrets (how he came to meet Fran, where he had acquired the Strahl, what had possessed him to call himself 'Balthier') or to understand the shadows that haunted even his most genuine smile.

She did not need to know how he came by the thin tracery of scars across his back (which she fancied looked like the lash of a whip but could just as easily be from a Viera's sharp claws).

She did not need to know because she already knew the most important facts. She knew he loved her, that he would die for her and more importantly, that he had already given over his future to her and their children.

Catching up with Fran so that she could walk abreast with the other woman the two found the winding, hidden, pathway that led up to the curtain wall and the lych gate of the Temple complex.

Whatever Balthier was up to, whatever temporary insanity had spread, like an airborne contagion, from her to him, for the first time Ashe felt confident that the two of them, she and Fran together, could knock the sense back into him before the arrogant fool did something quite dazzlingly stupid.

* * *

**The Stilshrine of Miriam**

Penelo had not known where else to go.

After battling her way down the slopes of Mount Bur Omisace in the gathering gale and blizzard she had almost subconsciously travelled in the only direction she knew, towards the Stilshrine.

She didn't know what power, mystical or otherwise, affected the outside of the Stilshrine and made it so that the driving gale that ravaged the snow covered treacherous natural bridges and mountain winds leading to the Stilshrine did not breach the cool tranquillity of the ancient shrine.

The cold sun glittered on the water channels running on either side of the main concourse leading to the shrine and Penelo sat quietly on the snow free, paved causeway watching the jewelled reflections of sunlight and clouds on the surface of the still, icy water.

Penelo did not know what she would do next, now that she had abandoned Ashe and already revealed far too much of what she had so foolishly done to Balthier and Vaan both (how would she ever be able to look Vaan in the eye again; he had warned her and she hadn't listened).

She would have to abandon her home and her friends and all the family she had left. She would not be there for Ashe's twins naming ceremony; she would not see the cathedral re-built.

She could never see Larsa again.

The scuff of a flat soled boot on the concourse had Penelo up and on her feet daggers drawn in an instant. She did not put her weapons away when she recognised the Streetear duo, looking frostbitten and even more bedraggled than normal.

'Bloody 'ell, it's colder than a Kiltias tits out 'ere.' Jules announced as a means of greeting and received a hard punch in the arm from Gerty in response.

'What are you doing here?' Penelo demanded still maintaining her fighter's stance.

Jules shrugged, 'We're on a pilgrimage. Me and Gert thought we'd see what all the fuss was about with this religion lark before we 'eaded 'ome.'

Penelo glared at him as did Gerty before the female Streetear turned to Penelo hands raised in a placating gesture.

'We came to see that yer were alright, Miss Penelo. 'is lordship sent us, 'e's right worried about yer.'

Penelo blinked in surprise, 'What? Larsa sent you….but how….I mean….'

She trailed off as her thoughts swirled together in a confused snarl. How did Larsa know the Streetears were at the encampment? What were they still doing on the mountains when they left early yesterday morning?

If Larsa knew about the Streetears, but no he couldn't know about them. If he knew he's do something about them, surely? He'd try to find out what they wanted, which would mean he'd find out that she'd been talking to them and then he'd find out why……….

…..and then he'd know the whole story and he couldn't possibly know, could he? Because if he knew……..

While Penelo tried to disentangle her knotted thoughts twisting and spinning like an Ouroboro devouring itself, another question, sharp like a shard of broken glass, sharp enough to cut through the knot of her confusion, whispered through her mind.

_How could Larsa not know that a Streetear was working in the Imperial Palace?_

Penelo had wondered that very thing when she had been introduced to Gerty's family ties and true profession but in the excitement and muddle of their intricate plots she had let the question drop.

Now she realised, with all she knew about Larsa and Archades a city run and ruined by the thirst for knowledge and secrets, it was impossible that Larsa did not know that his chambermaid was sister to Archades greatest Streetear, and if he knew and hadn't done anything that meant…….

The moment that Penelo's heart broke was actually visible. Both Streetear's saw it when the light went out of her hazel eyes and the youth and vitality blanched away to nothingness. The sound of the young woman's heart shattering, her innocence destroyed, was almost audible.

Had the Streetear siblings not sound their shame and humility long ago in order to survive and thrive in a society that wanted to see them brought lower than the filth under foot in the Alley of Muted Sighs, they would have averted their eyes, turned away for some things are too raw to be witnessed.

Penelo dropped her daggers to the floor with a rattling clang and raised shaking hands to her mouth. Tears trembled on the edges of her lashes and her eyes beseeched the two Streetears to deny the knowledge that now filled her with dread.

'He knew……he knew all along.'

Gerty reached out a hand, a genuine gesture of Hume warmth. Penelo reared back, shaking her head so hard her loose bound hair came loose.

'…..don't touch me……leave me alone, just leave me alone.'

In that moment Penelo could have done many things. She could have given in to her pain, her sense of betrayal and dropped to her knees in tears. She could have forgotten all her mother ever told her about never letting the people who had hurt her see her cry and wept broken in the shadow of the Stilshrine.

She could have readied a Scourge spell and unleashed it upon the Streetears, watching her mutely as her world crumbled. She could have watched as their life seeped out of them in one agonising convulsion after another.

But that was not the way Penelo was, for better or worse she could not strike out against her manipulators and in her defence all she could do was turn on her heels, heart constricted with agony, and run as fast as her dancers legs could take her towards the shrine.

She could only hope her enemies did not follow her; she was a puppet with broken strings and had not the heart to dance to their tune any longer.

* * *

**Ambervale; the grand circle**

Mishman did not know whether Al-Cid's silence was to his benefit or not. Certainly Mishman had not expected his brother to rant and wail, Al-Cid had been trained by their father after all, and the pathetic coward had always carried himself with a certain steadiness for all his failings.

The only thing Al-Cid had requested was that his blasted 'birds' be strangled before they were put upon the pyre.

Mishman had wanted to refuse but his advisors in the government Pavilion had advised him that the people would not like to see three women burnt to death.

The people were sick of the burnings and the hangings and the disembowelment according to his Pavilion. Mishman had curled his lip and replied that they should stop mounting rebellions against their anointed Emperor then. They should stop whispering sedition in favour of his doomed brother.

The people's duty was to obey the edicts of their Emperor and an Emperor must always obey his own judgement, chosen by the Gods as the Margrace family had been, to govern over the greatness of Rozzaria.

He would burn a man a day until the people learned their place. Learnt to honour him and his victory as befit his triumph.

The bugle sounded and the condemned were marched, in chains at neck, wrists and ankles, below the raised platform where Mishman sat with his wife demurely at his feet as a wide should be.

The pyre had been built high and in no time, under the silent watchfulness of the crowd, Al-Cid was tied to the stake, his 'birds' laid out at his feet on the bed of kindling, dead and bloodless pale.

Mishman nodded to the executions, their torches lit in anticipation, and the black clad men touched their flaming tapers to the pile of kindling, dry hay and broken wooden furniture mounded high at Al-Cid's feet.

In the dry heat of the Rozzarian late summer the flames caught quickly, leaping joyously to touch the sky, devouring the wood and chasing upwards towards the meat on the stick.

All the while as the flames consumed the bodies of his companions and the silent, cowed spectators, ordered by Imperial mandate to watch the traitors burn, began to murmur and exclaim in weak willed terror and outrage, Al-Cid himself simply stared calmly and steadily into the eyes of his brother.

As Mishman stared transfixed, the flames catching on his brother's legs, the smoke acrid and black, it seemed through the wavering heat haze rising above the dancing tips of flames that his brother's lips moved.

'Farewell brother.' Al-Cid smiled, despite the agony he must have been enduring as the flames swallowed up his body.

'I wish you joy in your victory my brother. May it be everything you dreamed it would be.'

Despite the screams from the rioting crowd demanding that the executioners through more fuel to the fire and speed poor, Lord Al-Cid to his eternal rest as the only mercy that could afford him, Mishman heard every word his brother spoke.

Then the fire roared upward in an inferno of gold and red and orange, a forest of liquid flickering death that finally broke the gaze of brother on brother and stole Al-Cid away from Mishman forever.

The fire burned for some great long while. Mishman watched it until, hours later, the air in the Ceremonial Grand Circle precinct was filled with choking ash and smoke, the stench of cooked meat nauseating.

Mishman watched alone; the crowd having been disbursed when they showed signs of turning on their Emperor and even his wife driven away by the monstrous smell and the stinging soot that floated down and covered everything around with a thick, greasy coating of grey dust.

A tiny flicker of movement in the periphery of his vision caused Mishman to look from the charred remains in their bed of ashes.

Jolting in his chair of state, carried outside of the Palace Margrace by twelve men condemned for execution at some later date, as he recognised the smirking man from before who was presently propping his foot up on the first step up to the platform where Mishman sat, brushing soot and ash from his shiny thigh high boots.

'D'you know,' the man began in insultingly conversational and familiar tones, 'I once surmised that you would end up ruling over a funerary pyre and not an empire. I see now that I was correct. Tell me do you intent to kill everyone in Ivalice or merely those you swore to protect as their Emperor and liege lord?'

Mishman hardened his jaw and refused to meet the laughing eyes of the unreal man who haunted him consistently, dogging his every step.

'Begone phantom I shall not be deterred from my course by a wraith.'

The phantom man laughed, a rich, rolling sound at odds with the terrible circumstances.

'Oh, believe me, your Excellency, I have no desire to divert or deter you. On the contrary, I urge you to go further still. Your enemies are multitude; you cannot waste time watching cooked meat spoil.' The ghost's sharp smile sliced at the very heart of Mishman's fears.

Daily reports came in of insurrection in Dalmasca of the mobilisation and re-militarisation of Archadia, of the peasants and farmers and labourers of Rozzaria who would sooner risk eternal damnation and death on the stake than submit to the will of their rightful ruler.

Mishman shivered in undisguised horror when the phantom jauntily stepped up the stairs and crossed the platform in less time than an eye blink to lean forward and whispered in Mishman's ear.

'Burn them all your Excellency. Proclaim your new order throughout all Ivalice. Let this be a pyrrhic victory in literal truth.'

* * *

**Temple of Mount Bur-Omisace; Lych Gate**

'They are all asleep; how can this be?'

Ashe gently nudged the slumberous Ascendancy foot soldier with the toe of her boot. The man did not so much as stir.

'The Gran Kiltias commands the dreams of men.' Fran murmured meditatively.

Ashe looked up at her sharply and nipped her lip. 'Then Balthier and Marana came this way and recently.'

Fran nodded, 'The cold air within the archway captures and holds his scent in thrall. The scent is warm, no more than an hour has past since he came under the archway.'

'Good, even Balthier cannot have incited over much chaos in such a short expanse of time.' Chewing her lip Ashe considered her own words then looked sharply to Fran. 'We had best hurry.' she amended.

Ashe did not worry over much for stealth, she had never been overly good at remaining inconspicuous, despite her two years spent presumed dead under her own city (had it not been for Vossler's careful minding she would have been captured a thousand times over).

As she and Fran sprinted up the wynds leading up to the Bur-Omisace temple audience chamber, Ashe was at least heartened that Fran (although always light of foot and quiet) did not appear over concerned with softening the clatter of her metal spiked heels on the icy cobbles either.

It took both of them to locate the mechanism to open the huge, towering engraved doors to the temple audience chamber as well as some manual pushing when the mechanism proved itself to be damaged.

Drawing the Sword of Kings Ashe burst into the chamber, his name on her lips, 'Balthier? Balthier where are you?'

As her mind made sense of what her eyes took in she skidded to a clumsy halt in astonishment.

Seated in the chair of the Kiltias was a man in a magnificent, almost obscene suit of cloth of gold and the sky blue of Rozzaria with long, tangled black hair and a face that might have been described as handsome had it not been for the sneer of cruelty and selfishness that had left a permanent mar on his well-proportioned, symmetrical features.

The man, Ashe realised with some shock, was asleep. His head was lolling to one side, mouth loose and lax his body slumped and vulnerable in the grand chair.

At the man's right hand side a Helgas girl, who Ashe belatedly recognised as the missing Marana, stood watching the man sleep, one hand held to his forehead and an almost tender look upon her sharp, long face.

On the man's left side Balthier leant by the throne, his eyes closed and his expression a mask of concentration. Presently his lips moved as if he was speaking in a dream and the man in the chair twitched in response, an expression of fleeting fear passing over him.

'What is the meaning of this?' Ashe demanded of no one and everyone present, finally recognising the man in the chair as the hated Mishman Margrace.

The click of her heels heralded Fran's presence at Ashe's side. The Viera surveyed the scene in silence as the Gran Kiltias Marana turned to face them, opening her yellow eyes.

'Shhh.' The sharp sibilant admonishment was coupled with the childish action of placing her long, bony finger to her lips.

'This night's work is not for you, Dynast Queen. The dreamer and the dreamed of in battle waged brook no interruption lest the dreamer and dreamed in flesh do meet and battle of the wills become battle of the blood.'

Ashe narrowed her eyes, something about the girls stance set warning bells to ringing in her warriors mind and Ashe tightened her grip upon her sword hilt.

'What are you doing to my husband?' she demanded advancing a slow step towards the chair of Kiltias. Marana giggled.

'Not I. Not my will in play is this night's foolery. Not I that would make himself a figment in a madman's dreams. Not I to turn madness to horror and victory to never-ending torment. Not I that would turn a man's triumph to his never waking nightmare.'

Ashe shook her head ignoring the enigmatic babbling she dashed forward to reach out for Balthier to shake him awake and rescue him from whatever spell he was under.

She reached out a hand towards his shoulder and it seemed as though the air did thicken, closing in around her like a net, trapping her in mid step and pressing down upon her with a pressure that drove her to her knees.

Marana held one hand aloft and pointed her index finger at Ashe, her telekinesis freezing Ashe in place with an almost impossible strength. She had never felt a spell to river Marana's strength.

With a flick of her wrist, as Ashe was forced to watch on her knees struggling to find the air to breathe let alone cry out, Marana diverted the course of Fran's loosed arrow and immediately caught the Viera also in a thick and cloying web of magick.

With arms outstretched holding her captives in thrall Marana smiled.

'I have been a-dreaming of this time. I have seen how this night's work shall end. I have seen so many things, a-wandering the dreams of men. I have seen Ivalice in dreams shroud, her secrets revealed in the minds of sleeping fools. I have seen calamity and triumph and the breaking of old ties.'

Again the monstrous child-mage giggled. Her fine hair, finer and paler than Fran's, trembled with her joyous mirth. She leaned her long torso forward and smiled brightly, girlishly, conspiringly towards Ashe.

'I shall tell of my dreams. I have seen you there. I see a city of the dead rising and the natural order reversed.'

Marana dropped her arms and pirouetted delightedly, twirling around on the spot, hair whipping about her. The magick holding Ashe and Fran immobile disbursed but Ashe found herself unable to move, captivated by the girl before her.

'I have seen Golmore Jungle to Balfonheim come. I have seen airships underwater swim and fish too large for the ocean float through clouds. I see a boy and a girl, with destiny unwritten, and the Occuria in their tome. Mehaps I see the dreams of dreams. Mehaps I see tomorrow. Mehaps I shall see you there Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca; a widow evermore.'

Ashe opened her mouth to retort, though she knew not what she would say, when from the chair and the man slumped upon it, a high, piteous, keening wail came forth to fill the chamber.

* * *

**The Stilshrine of Miriam**

She was exactly where the Streetears said she would be. To Larsa Penelo looked like a goddess, or a nymph, quiet and serene, yet perpetually sad, gazing at the waters flickering in the cold breeze of the pre-dawn darkness huddled in the doorway of the Stilshrine against the biting cold.

Walking forward and seeing her startled upward gaze turn to one of guarded coldness barely concealing a terrible pain, was the hardest thing Larsa had ever had to do in a life of hard made choices.

'Penelo.'

He could think of nothing more profound to say than her own name, but then that name held its own associated magick to him.

'Larsa,' Her response in kind sounded like a stranger with her familiar voice.

He had always loved her voice not because she was possessed of a particularly fine voice but because she wasn't.

Penelo's voice was prosaically ordinary and that was its beauty. With such a simple voice nothing could diminish the loveliness of the thoughts that voice gave substance to.

'Have you remained outside all this time?' Larsa asked concerned when he saw her bow her shoulders under the thickness of her wolf fur coat.

Penelo looked at him with vacant eyes; she was no longer engaged behind her eyes, no longer with him in spirit.

'No, I went inside the Stilshrine but the bats were too noisy so I came out here. It's really not that cold, not like the first time we were here.'

Silence stretched between them, taut and thrumming with things unsaid and unmentionable. Larsa licked his lips and regretted the nervous gesture when the cold prickled over his dampened lips, pinching the sensitive skin.

On the way here he had gone over and over the things he would say. How he would explain to her what must seem inexplicable and inexcusable; face to face, able to see the tear tracks on her tan cheeks he realised that there was no explanation, no reason that could justify what he had done.

'I am sorry Penelo. I simply wanted to find you to tell you that I am truly sorry for what I have put you through. It was never my intent to cause you pain but that does not really matter for I have done so anyway.'

Looking down at her fur lined heavy snow boots Penelo said nothing and did not meet his eyes.

Larsa nodded in understanding. The silence between them was littered with broken promise and the ghosts of so many glorious might-have-beens. The wonders that could have been had he been a stronger man……or any man at all…..instead of the frightened boy he was.

How did he explain to her, of all people, she who had lost so much and never once given in to bitterness or cynicism, what it was to be him; how did he justify and explain a lifetime, an entire upbringing, wherein the greatest lesson he had learned was how to twist and bend and subtly manipulate every occurrence, every opportunity, and everybody around him to his will and his way?

How did he tell this strong, honest, courageous woman before him who freely gave her friendship and her love to the son and brother of the two men most responsible for the destruction of her family and the occupation of her homeland?

How did he find the courage to admit to her that he had not the bravery in his soul to accept the gift of her love if he could not control it?

'F-farewell Penelo.' His voice cracked on the one thing he had the courage to say. 'I wish you only happiness and health for all your days to come.'

…_..and I loved you the way a plant loves the sun for your warmth and your radiance and your absolute faith given unstintingly and unconditionally, and gods damn me, I wanted to keep you always near me. I have only ever felt safe in the embrace of your smile._

Larsa turned on his heel and began to walk away back into the biting snow storm that left the shrine in peace. He walked towards the darkness as behind Penelo the morning sun rose.

'You won't even tell me why?' Her voice stopped him in his tracks and slowly, almost reluctantly Larsa turned to face her.

Penelo had left the shadowed enclosure of the shrine and now stood with her back proud and straight to the rising sun, facing the darkness unafraid.

'Anything I say would only be facile justification. I respect you too much for that, Penelo.'

Penelo had been wringing her hands together nervously and realising this she stopped and lowered her tight fists to either side. 'You used me.'

Larsa nodded, 'Yes.' He whispered.

'Why?' she demanded and anyone but she would have shouted, cried, or snarled but Penelo did not, always Penelo held her power and her passion hidden behind her sweet façade.

Larsa could not meet her eyes. He had stared down his entire senate, men many decades his senior, he had commanded battalions and addressed millions of people but he could not meet the simple gaze of one woman when he most needed to.

Mutely he shook his head; there were no words.

'I have a right to know.' Penelo pressed her voice growing stronger.

Larsa looked up at her for a moment trapped by the simplicity of honest justice. She did have a right to know and it was cowardice on his part to want to conceal the true rationale behind his actions.

'All I can tell you is this. I did it because the senators are too powerful and without a means to break their monopoly on the economy and monitory system in Archadia I cannot bring about the abolition of the Chops system or reform the franchise. Dr Ned is the means of breaking the other senators' control and granting the Vulgars the franchise.'

'No, Larsa,' Penelo shook her head, her hair, loose and golden like a wheat field under a midday sun, rippled down past her shoulders, 'that's not what I meant. I understand about Dr Ned. I don't understand why you _used me_.'

'Because there was no one else I trusted. Because I hoped that you would feel as I do and understand why the current system will only hold Archadia back.'

One large, crystallised tear rolled down her cheek and she shook her head slowly, confusedly. 'But why didn't you just ask me, Larsa?'

Larsa flinched. The question, so simple, so purely Penelo, cut him to the quick. It had never occurred to him to simply ask her for her help. That was not how things were done. He was Emperor, he was Solidor; he had never asked anyone who help.

He had argued and debated. He had offered proposals and posited suggestions, but he had never simply asked anyone for help. The idea was almost beyond his comprehension that he could have simply told her everything and asked her to help him without pretence and incentive.

Penelo was watching him as she wiped at her tear stained, wind blown face, like a child. 'I love you Larsa; if you'd ask me I would have helped you, don't you know that?'

Something inside Larsa Solidor broke at that moment. Something fundamental, a belief or a delusion he held about himself and the life he led was irreparably damaged by that one, tear stained question.

For only the second time in his life Larsa solidor felt himself begin to cry; a single sluggish tear that seemed to freeze across his skin, the cold still air of the Shrine stinging and icy against the track of salty moisture.

'….you would….?' Inarticulate and uncomprehending Larsa's world seemed to end. Only one question needed to be asked.

'But why?' It was barely more than a whisper. 'Why would you risk so much for me, Penelo, when you have nothing to gain?'

He had hoped that if Penelo realised the plight of the Vulgars her natural compassion and sense of justice would impel her to do whatever she could to assist the Streetears and Dr Ned.

'I already told you Larsa; because I love you and you are my friend. That's what friends do. They help each other. It's just that simple.'

The plan had been sound. Penelo would believe herself acting of her own volition and he, as the Emperor, could not be implicated in a plot to deliberately undermine the power of the semi-autonomous senate.

More importantly and the heart of the betrayal Larsa had perpetrated on Penelo was the assertion he had held that if Penelo embroiled herself (of her own free will or so she believed) in Archadian politics he would have the means to bind her irrevocably to him.

Larsa had always feared one day becoming his brother. Today he realised he was far worse than Vayne, who had been a tool of the machinations of other, greater minds, twisted by ambition and destroyed by past deeds committed for love of family and Empire.

Today Larsa realised that he had become his own father. A man who had manipulated one son to kill two others and died at the hands of the monster he had created. Today Larsa had stepped into the shadow of his father and he hated it.

Larsa met Penelo's soft hazel eyes, gentle eyes that concealed a strong and indomitable will. 'I am so sorry Penelo.'

She nodded, 'And I forgive you.' A tiny smile broke free to dance briefly across her face, 'After all, you clearly didn't know any better.'

Larsa did not so much as breath, 'You forgive me?'

It did not seem quite plausible that she would, despite the fact that Penelo had already forgiven him his family and his nationality.

'Why?'

Penelo shrugged, 'Because I can.'

The simplicity of that one statement, alien to Larsa's entire way of thinking, the ways of Solidor and Archadia, dropped down upon him like an executioners axe and just as the axe separates the soul from the mortal body, so to did Penelo's forgiveness go someway to cutting Larsa free from the traps of his familial past.

Larsa closed his eyes tightly and swallowed convulsively. He did not deserve nor want her forgiveness. In forgiving him his betrayal so readily she lessened herself. She devalued herself by accepting that he had used her so easily and he wished more fervently than he had every wished for anything that he possessed the power to refuse her forgiveness for her sake.

He opened his eyes when he felt her step up to him, the scent of spring flowers clinging to her, as she threaded her arms through his.

'I mean, I'm not saying I'm just letting you off the hook about all this.'

She added cheerfully turning him around and leading him along the concourse away from the shrine. The rising sun sweeping across the smooth paved walkway rolled ahead of them like a carpet of light leading their way.

'I'm going to want a tiara with jewels and a really big wedding, and Ashe's babies will be in my wedding train, though they will probably need to be carried by one of my other bridesmaids and we have to have Star fruit in the wedding banquet. In fact I want my cake made with Star fruit; Migelo knows how to make a really good star fruit cobbler.'

Larsa blinked owlishly, almost stumbling as he turned to stare at her in incomprehension. 'Penelo….I am not sure I entirely understand you?'

Penelo grinned at him for a moment reminding him forcibly of Vaan, 'You owe me Larsa. You owe me big time. So I guess you've got to marry me, because you've had everything else from me already.'

Larsa struggled with the less than characteristic desire to say 'umm?' and blinked dazedly in rapid succession, 'Y-you would marry me? You wish to be wed?'

They stopped at the end of the concourse turning to face each other. Penelo smiled at him and the sun painted her in gold and silver resplendence.

'I'm going to make an honest man out of you, Larsa Solidor, even if it takes the rest of both our lives.' She told him stoutly.

There was nothing Larsa could do except drop down on one knee in the snow that mounded at the edges of the concourse and clasp her hand in his to raise that hand to his mouth in one reverential kiss.

'Thank you.' He whispered.

The sun finally crested the picturesque roof of the shrine and lit the jagged edges of the mountains in gold gilt and sparkling sun. The sight was magnificent and breathtaking and Larsa paid it no heed whatsoever, for at the same moment Penelo smiled.

'You're welcome.'

* * *

**Temple of Mount Bur-Omisace; audience chamber**

_It had been swift. The cannon ball had blasted through the side of the wagon and reduced it to tinder wood in an instance. She had not suffered. She had not suffered, little Alfayna, she had simply died; died without even having the opportunity to live. Died hiding under a pile of dirty clothing in a wagon as men and women fought and slaughtered each other all around her._

_What was suffering to that? Mishman had almost laughed as he dug the little body out from the litter of wood shards, struggling with the half wagon wheel that had all but crushed her into the oil slicked sands. _

_It was not possible to bury the dead in the desert. Scavengers would sniff out the blood and dig up the bodies. So they built a huge bonfire and stacked the bodies upon the kindling. He watched her burn and thought to use his handkerchief against the stench until he remembered that she still had it. _

Mishman Margrace exploded out of the persistent nightmare and found himself once more in the safe surroundings of his throne room in his new palace of Bur-Omisace. As he acclimatised himself to his surroundings he thought he heard a scream from somewhere else in the former temple but paid it little mind.

He was accustomed to screams and terrified men and women begging for mercy. It was the music of his victory fanfare and the fabric of his endless days.

'What was that scream?' he asked one of his loitering Ascendancy soldiers.

'The Empress Hepzibah, my Emperor, your wife is dead.'

Mishman nodded vaguely waving the red cowled man away into the blood tinged shadows.

'Ah, Hepzibah, if not here then in the hereafter, my love, our candles burn bright but brief.'

Mishman was not surprised to see his personal haunt and tormenter step out of the ether with smirk in place.

'Sad tidings, your Excellency. My condolences on the death of your wife which is more than I ever received from you when you murdered _my wife_ and butchered my babes.'

'Begone spirit no mere wraith will be the death of me.' Mishman had not the energy to do more than wave his hand in vacant dismissal.

'Oh, but it is not death I want to offer you, your Excellency.' The smirking man purred coming to sit comfortably on the highest step of the throne dais.

'You seem in ill spirits, have you grown fatigued with all the barbarism, hmm?'

'Begone.' Mishman repeated listlessly.

'Oh, I will, shortly.' The man replied pulling at his shirt sleeves, 'but first I am beholden to offer you a chance at redemption. You can end this nightmare right now if you wish.'

Mishman frowned distrustfully but could not rouse more than a fraction of his once omnipresent anger. 'What nonsense do you speak, spirit? This is no nightmare. I am awake already.'

The man grinned at him sharp and bright, 'Are you so certain of that?'

Mishman glared but still could not muster the energy to strike out at the spirit with his sword discarded on the dais floor by his feet.

'I am Emperor of all I survey. This is my victory and my triumph.'

'Uh-hmm and your lifelong dream; can you see a pattern here, your Excellency? Your dream has become a perpetual nightmare and I offer you, most generously I might add, all things considered, the chance to awaken from this dream turned nightmare. All you need do is accept that none of this is real and you will wake.'

'Begone!'

Mishman roared grabbing his sword and in one violent motion and bringing it down painfully hard upon the empty air and the stone of the Dais where the smirking man had never been mere seconds before.

'Well if that is your final answer, I suppose I have tarried here long enough.' The smirking man demurred slyly. He then faded, for the final time, into nothingness and left Mishman Margrace alone to his victory.

For the first time Mishman wondered if he had quite right; was the smirking man the phantom or was it he who was all but dead?

* * *

**The Temple of Bur-Omisace; audience chamber**

Ashe watched uncomprehending and mildly horrified as the man in the Kiltias chair, Mishman Margrace, dissolute and broken in his slumber, finally stopped screaming and thrashing like a fish out of water and collapsed like a puppet with broken strings to slide bonelessly from the Kiltias chair.

His eyes were open and dead even though Ashe could hear the rattle of his rapid breathing.

'It is over.' Marana sighed like a girl. 'He chose a dream within a nightmare over the death of that dream. How very odd. How very _Hume_.'

Daintily she stepped over the living dead body of the Rozzarian Emperor and settled comfortably in her chair absently she placed her feet onto his torso like a footrest and closed her eyes to enter her own dreams.

Ashe turned to Fran with a look of utter befuddlement. She opened her eyes to attempt to give some voice to her confusion when a moan and a jaw cracking yawn from the throne stopped her dead.

'Well hello, Highness, Fran, is it morning already?

Balthier rose slowly to his feet, still yawning and stretching, 'Gods who would have thought a dream could be so tiring?' he murmured to himself.

Ashe stopped herself from going to him with a wary eye on Marana and the fallen Margrace.

'Balthier what have you done?' It ended up something of a shriek.

With a lazy smirk her husband stepped over the body of Mishman Margrace without sparing him a glance.

'I have done exactly as you wished Ashe, no more, no less. Now we shall not have to worry what to do with Margrace for the Kiltia shall care for him as they do all their other comatose victims.' Balthier then winked impishly at Marana who giggled in her sleep.

When Ashe and Fran just stared at him Balthier sighed with exaggerated patience, 'Really Highness, I would think you would be pleased. We have a universal victory on our hands. Margrace has his victory, though admittedly it only exists within his mind, and we are now free to return to Dalmasca.'

Balthier snaked an arm around her waist in an uncharacteristic public display of affection his Archadian upbringing usually did not allow him, stifled another huge yawn, and instead kissed her on the cheek.

As he did so he whispered in her ear, 'be happy Ashe. We have won. We are free and soon, very soon, you shall hold our children again. Surely you don't need to know anymore than that?'

Ashe sucked in her breath sharply at the mention of her children and the constant, deep ache in her soul that absence from them had created.

Quite abruptly, with Balthier's arm slung around her waist guiding her gently but inescapably towards the audience chamber doors, Ashe realised that she no longer cared for Mishman Margrace or the Ascendancy. All she wanted was to end this nightmare and hold her children.

Fran fell into step on Balthier's other side as they stepped up to the door; for a moment Ashe turned around to look to Marana grinning with macabre innocence, her eyes closed and posture relaxed. Ashe could not suppress a shiver of pure foreboding as Marana's enigmatic prophecy whispered through her memory.

Balthier had stopped with her and threw an unconcerned glance over his shoulder at Marana and Mishman Margrace at her feet. He arched an eyebrow with some amusement.

'Hmm, she is a fearsome little Narcoleptic, isn't she?'

'Yes, yes she is.' Ashe admitted as they stepped out of the Kiltia temple and into the rising sun. She did not ask any further questions. She did not want to know the answers.

It was over and today was a brand new day.

* * *

**Temple of Bur-Omisace; audience chamber**

Once the doors thudded slowly closed with a resounding boom of ancient hinges and heavy golden doors behind the retreating figures of Balthier, Ashe and Fran, Marana opened her eyes with a delicate, anticipatory smile.

From the folds of her bell shaped full length sleeve she withdrew the burnt and singed orange shaded Cryst sliver that she carried always with her.

Gently she ran the pad of her thumb over the surface of one multi-faceted side of the jagged shard. A sharp splinter sliced the meat of her thumb and she sucked in a startled breath before raising her thumb to her mouth.

Marana smiled down on the Cryst shard in her lap lovingly.

'Age of Stones is past; age of gods soon follows. Soon, it will be soon.'

Giggling girlishly Marana leapt to her feet and stepped upon the soulless husk of Mishman Margrace holding the Cryst shard to the light to create rainbow prisms through the air.

She smiled enormously, triumphantly, sharp white teeth glittering in the reflected lights of the Cryst.

'History in the hands of man; it begins.'

And then, witnessed only by the vacant eyes of the dream trapped Mishman Margrace, Marana laughed and sang and danced for joy and in anticipation of tomorrow and what only she knew would come of it.

* * *

_Fini……?_


End file.
